


There’s A Certain Slant Of Light

by halfdesertedstreets



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (occasionally C+ but I bump him up for effort), 2018 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bitty Never Went to Samwell, Bodyswap, Crying from Stress, Endgame PB&J or Bust, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Figure Skater Eric "Bitty" Bittle, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Biphobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kent Parson's B- Communication Skills, Kent Parson's Competency Kink, Kent Parson's Grade A Cooking Skills, Kind of - more like switching places with an alternate universe version of yourself, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mentions of Past Overdose, Multiple Universes Colliding, Parallel Universes, Stanley Cup Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-01-15 15:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 128,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12323583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdesertedstreets/pseuds/halfdesertedstreets
Summary: Kent Parson wakes up the day after Cup Day in bed with a stranger. He's expecting to have hooked up with a Jack Zimmermann look-a-like. He isnotexpecting to see Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend sound asleep beside him, dressed in what looks like one of his old Aces’ jerseys and nothing else.Kent stares. And stares. And stares some more. Completely eloquently, for the third time that morning, he says, “What the fuck.”--Or, Kent Parson swaps places with an alternate version of himself who happens to be madly in love with one Eric R. Bittle. It goes about as well as you'd expect.





	1. inebriate of air am i

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharlatan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharlatan/gifts).



> Based on [this post](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/post/159195944745/gutsybitsies-gutsybitsies-yall-just-imagine) by [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com). Fic title taken from the [poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/theres-certain-slant-light-258) of the same name by Emily Dickinson. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters are not mine; all credit goes to [ngoziu](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson peers down at the Stanley Cup with considerable distaste. Sticky brown caramel is stuck to the rim, and the metal is shiny with oil from the leftovers of the popcorn from Swoops and Mags’s date night—which, like, good for them, Kent had liked every one of their photos on Instagram, but to not have the decency to wash it out afterwards? He thought better of them, he really did.
> 
> “Isn’t there a rule or something to prevent this type of blatant desecration?” he complains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from this [poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/i-taste-liquor-never-brewed-214). No actual Stanley Cups were harmed in the process of writing this fic. (Please suspend your disbelief while reading; I know the Keepers of the Cup would never permit such blasphemies as occur in this first chapter. Thank you for your patience and understanding. :))

\---

 

 _There’s a certain Slant of light,_  
_Winter Afternoons —_  
_That oppresses, like the Heft_  
_Of Cathedral Tunes —_

 

_\---_

 

_\---_

 

_\---_

 

_Inebriate of air — am I —_  
_And Debauchee of Dew —_  
_Reeling — thro’ endless summer days —_  
_From inns of molten Blue —_

 

\---

 

Kent Parson peers down at the Stanley Cup with considerable distaste. Sticky brown caramel is stuck to the rim, and the metal is shiny with oil from the leftovers of the popcorn from Swoops and Mags’ date night—which, like, good for them, Kent had liked every one of their photos on Instagram, but to not have the decency to wash it out afterwards? He thought better of them, he really did.

“Isn’t there a rule or something to prevent this type of blatant desecration?” he complains to Richards, the representative/so-called “Keeper” of the Cup from the Hockey Hall of Fame, since the actual Trustees of the Cup are both pushing ninety and can’t be bothered to follow a fancy metal trophy around the world on its adventures with hyped-up jocks.

Richards gives him a look. His eyes are dark and a mix of slightly haunted and completely done with this shit. It’s a look that tells Kent loud and clear that he has Seen Things. “You’re a hockey player,” he says. “You’ve done this before. What do you think?”

Kent grimaces. “But isn’t it common courtesy not to leave clean-up to the next guy?”

“Jeffrey Troy said, and I quote, ‘It’s payback, bitch,’” Richards says, completely deadpan.

Which, okay, fair enough. Swoops and Maggie have been the tag-team dream-team champs of cleaning up after Kent’s messes over the years; he can give them this one. “Fine,” he says, sighing dramatically.

Richards doesn’t even glance up from his book this time. Kent recognizes the cover as that one biography that inspired Lin-Manuel Miranda to write Hamilton; his mom read it last year. So did Jack, the nerd. Kent’s more of a paranormal romance kind of guy, but whatever, to each their own. Kent shrugs and sticks the Cup under his arm, wandering three rooms over to the kitchen to get a sponge and some dish soap to wash it. No way he’s eating his Oreo O’s in milk that tastes like popcorn—he’s not a barbarian, thank you very much.

Halfway through filling the Cup up with water, he suddenly remembers that it’s made of silver and probably has to be washed specially or something. After googling it, he discovers that: 1) The Cup is actually made of a silver and nickel alloy. 2) People can get really intense about what does and does not count as silverware. 3) He probably needs to buy silver polish. 4) One is not supposed to eat salty foods out of silver cups.

“Well, shit,” he mutters to himself, eyeing last night’s photo of Swoops dumping a ton of salty-ass popcorn into the Cup.

 

 **Kent** _[9:32 a.m.]_  
dude, you may have tarnished the Stanley Cup. LITERALLY.

 **Swoops** _[9:32 a.m.]_  
uhhhhhh, no? we used salt-free popcorn. do we look like morons?

 **Kent** _[9:33 a.m.]_  
Mags looks like a future Nobel Prize winner. you on the other hand? well…

 **Swoops** _[9:34 a.m.]_  
wow fuck you

 **Kent** _[9:35 a.m.]_  
fuck you, too. I wouldn’t even have to ask if SOMEBODY had been a decent human being and cleaned up after himself.

 **Swoops** _[9:35 a.m.]_  
two words:

 **Kent** _[9:35 a.m.]_  
DON’T

 **Swoops** _[9:35 a.m.]_  
angora rabbits

 **Kent** _[9:36 a.m.]_  
GDI

 **Kent** _[9:36 a.m.]_  
WE AGREED NEVER TO MENTION THAT

 **Kent** _[9:36 a.m.]_  
HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO BRIBE YOU TO KEEP SILENT? THIS IS EXTORTION.

 **Swoops** _[9:36 a.m.]_  
well, duh

 **Kent** _[9:36 a.m.]_  
real talk tho: is it really safe to use vinegar to clean silver, y/n?

 **Swoops** _[9:37 a.m.]_  
idk, man, how should I know? you’re the one who’s obsessed w/the food network

 **Kent** _[9:37 a.m.]_  
YEAH THEY TEACH ME TO *COOK* NOT CLEAN

 **Swoops** _[9:38 a.m.]_  
whatever, parse. just do your thing. I’m sure you can cover the costs if you ruin the cup beyond repair

 **Kent** _[9:38 a.m.]_  
WOW thanks for the vote of confidence!!!

 **Swoops** _[9:39 a.m.]_  
any time, man. now stop texting me, I’m trying to sleep here

 **Kent** _[9:40 a.m.]_  
kkthxbai

 **Swoops** _[9:40 a.m.]_  
stop this, my eyes do not deserve this filth

 

Kent laughs but desists. It’s Saturday morning and he doesn’t want to accidentally wake up Mags and stir her not inconsiderable wrath. Having exhausted his usual avenue of reason, however, he’s now torn between asking his mom for help (she’d probably know what to do, but her opinion on his adult life skills is low enough as it is), his sister (Carrie claims not to have an opinion on his adult life skills because she doesn’t believe he has any in the first place), or Jack.

He texts Jack.

 

 **Kent** _[9:45 a.m.]_  
yo, is it safe to clean things made out of silver with vinegar? asking for a friend

 **Kent** _[9:45 a.m.]_  
figured you would know, since I know for a fact you carted a 35 in. hunk of it around last year

 **Zimms** _[9:45 a.m.]_  
Parse, please tell me you’re not asking because it’s your Cup Day and you’ve tarnished the Stanley Cup.

 

That was fast. Kent bites the corner of his lip to contain his smile. No one’s in his kitchen with him, but old habits die hard, and being happy over Jack Zimmermann talking to him hasn’t been a safe thing to do for a long, long time. It’s not really a safe thing now, either, but that’s less because he might accidentally restart the rumors about them, and more because Jack’s taken and Kent’s trying to be kinder to himself and not get stuck in futile, one-sided crushes. 

His phone buzzes in his hand—another text from Jack. Kent’s grin involuntarily spreads across his whole face.

(It might be too late for him on the crush front, he has to admit. But then again, it’s sort of been too late since the first time Jack ever smiled at him, after their third practice together. That was when Kent started calling him Zimms, and the curve of Jack’s answering grin had been small and tentative and real and utterly, utterly blinding.)

 

 **Zimms** _[9:46 a.m.]_  
Don’t answer the question. Warm water and dish soap should be fine since the Cup is in good condition. Don’t use the scratchy side of the sponge and you should be good.

 **Kent** _[9:47 a.m.]_  
thanks! so I shouldn’t buy polish or anything?

 **Zimms** _[9:47 a.m.]_  
Do you have anything else made of solid silver?

 **Kent** _[9:48 a.m.]_  
no, but I gotta plan for the future, man. ;)

 **Zimms** _[9:48 a.m.]_  
You really think you’re gonna top 3 championships?

 **Kent** _[9:48 a.m.]_  
just watch me

 **Kent** _[9:49 a.m.]_  
also the cup’s actually made of silver AND nickel, fyi

 **Zimms** _[9:50 a.m.]_  
Just clean it, Parse.

 **Zimms** _[9:50 a.m.]_  
And send a picture. Bitty wants to make sure you followed his directions.

 

Of course Bitty is the one who knows how to properly clean silver. Of course. What doesn’t Mr. Perfect Southern Gentleman know? Kent snorts as he types out an affirmative, only a little bitter. Okay, _significantly_ bitter, but he’s also half as bitter as he used to be, which was intensely and severely bitter in the not-so-distant past, so cut him some slack. He’s not stupid; he knows that what he and Jack had has been over for a long time—longer than he’d wanted to admit. But damn it, that doesn’t make it easier to stomach the sweeter, smarter, younger, infinitely more put-together version he got replaced with.

Like, he gets it, okay? Kent Virgil Parson is the human equivalent of a helicopter dive-bombing a tank truck, while Eric Richard Bittle is as close as one can get to perfection, at least according to Jack. He’s slim, he’s blond, he’s cute. He’s thoughtful, he’s kind, he’s funny. He runs a vlog, he bakes, he has an absolutely savage twitter feed. He’s effortlessly charming and amazingly independent and endlessly supportive and he always, always knows what to do. Babies and small animals are easily soothed by the slow, honeyed drawl of his voice, and not even hardened criminals can withstand the shining light of his brilliant, even, perfectly white smile, while none of Kent’s front teeth survived his first three years in the NHL.

Eric Richard Bittle is the kind of boy that’s easy to fall in love with, that’s easy to _stay_ in love with. He’s the kind of boy Jack Zimmermann, hockey robot, can love enough to hold hands with in public. To risk his career for. To plan his whole post-hockey life around.

(Kent hears him in the background on phone calls with Jack sometimes, and Jack’s voice always goes so damn soft in response. It makes Kent’s heart pull in, tight and small and wizened, like it’s trying to shrink two sizes, because Jack never sounded like that for _him._ )

The worst part, though? Kent can’t even hate the guy. Well, he _can_ , and he _does_ , but he’s well aware he shouldn’t.

Because Eric Richard Bittle? Happens to be the reason Jack’s even talking to him in the first place.

Rationally, Kent knows a lot of it is because of who Kent is now—that a lot of it is years of therapy and hard work and finding ways to manage his most self-destructive behavior. And a lot of it's because of who Jack is, too, doing the same thing from the other side. Kent knows the two of them would probably have managed to forgive each other, to make amends. Probably. But the last push, the push for them to move beyond that, and build a friendship together? That’s on Bitty. That’s on Bitty being kind and unbelievably selfless, the type of upstanding person who tells the love of their life that it’s okay to want to have a connection with the person who was their first-ever friend, of course it’s okay, honey.

Basically, he’s the exact opposite of Kent, who’s a jealous, possessive fucker who’d’ve torched any and all mementos of Jack’s exes that he’d kept, and was prevented from doing so only because Jack hadn’t _had_ any exes at the time.

So, yeah. Bitty: 100, Kent: -10,000. No matter how many times Kent calls him a kid or jokingly-not-jokingly refers to their relationship as Jack cradle-robbing, the fact remains that Bitty is a thousand times better at being an actual functional adult than Kent is, knowing how to clean silver being case in point. Kent hopes that Jack knows how lucky he is to have somebody like that on his side, except—you know what, on second thought, he actively wishes Jack _didn’t_ know how lucky he was, or would at least stop rubbing Kent’s sadly single face in the fact.

The point is, here Kent is, two years later, both pathetically and profoundly grateful that he can text Jack randomly, just shooting shit and talking his mouth off, and have him respond within the minute, like they’re still friends. Because they _are_ friends. And it’s…great. It’s more than he thought he’d ever have. It’s just…also less than what he’d hoped for, once. He thinks it’d be easier to handle if he had an Eric Richard Bittle himself, but again, he’s a walking human disaster, so he understands why nobody can be bothered to stay unless they’re paid to be on the same team or bound to him by blood and the kind of fiercely tenacious love only a Parson woman possesses.

Whatever. So what if he doesn’t have a ridiculously cute boyfriend he’s planning to spend the rest of his life with? He’s got the two most bad-ass cats on the planet, a kid sister who makes it her life’s work to do no harm and take no shit, a mom who strikes terror and awe into the hearts of every player in the Western Conference, and a hockey team who’s had his back through not one, not two, but _three_ fucking play-off championships.

And he’s also got the Stanley Cup right here in his kitchen, freshly cleaned and ready for his Oreo O’s, which everyone knows is the true breakfast of champions (thank fucking God they revived this cereal; he made do with Cocoa Krispies the last two times, but it just wasn’t the same).

Kent Parson smiles crookedly and takes a photo, posting it on Instagram and then sending it to Jack.

 

\---

 

[Image: The Stanley Cup sits on a gray white-and-gold-flecked granite countertop, flanked by an elderly Maine Coone and a black American shorthair. The Cup is holding a bowl filled to the brim with milk and Oreo O’s]

 **therealkvp** @LasVegasAces @NHL Welcome to Take 3 of the Parson-style Cup Day! Say hi to my babies! _#KitPurrson #PrinceofPurrs #CatsbeforeCup #StanleyCup2019 #NHL_

 

\---

 

Yeah. Today’s going to be a great day. He just knows it.

 

\---

 

Kent spends most of the morning hauling the Cup around to the assorted residences of the Little Aces, hiring a bus to collect them all and take them to the T-Mobile Arena while he leads them in a rousing rendition of “99 Stan-i-ley Cups on the Wall.” Richards puts in ear plugs and Ginger, their latest PR intern, takes about a million videos. It’s perfect.

They spend the afternoon skating around, throwing a pizza party, and taking photos with the trophy where all the kids challenge themselves to come as close to the Cup as they can without touching it. (Kent likes Michelle’s spider-wall-jump photo the best, personally.)

At four o’clock, they get on the bus and head to Circus Circus, and Kent promises that whoever gets the highest score at air hockey will get to take the first selfie with the Cup the next time he wins it. Half the Little Aces take him at face value and start making plans for next year, and the other half tell him that _they’ll_ be next to win the Cup and _he’ll_ have to ask _them_ for selfies. He’s not sure which reaction warms his heart more.

Finally, at eight o’clock, he loads them all back up and drops them off at their homes, which takes the better part of two hours. Afterwards, he kisses the rim one last time and hands it over to Richards. Technically, he has the Cup ‘til midnight, but it’s also his third time with it and, frankly, making Richards go with him to hit up bars seems kinda tacky, so he cuts the guy a break and calls in an early night. Richards nods and they part ways amicably, then Kent calls up his boys and shouts, “Who’s ready to put their hands up? Because they’re playing my song!”

The rest of the night is—predictably—wild. Kent wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

\---

 

(He would, though, is the thing. He’d give his left arm and his right lung and his whole soul if he could have Jack Zimmermann next to him right here, right now, forever and ever and ever.

He doesn’t say that out loud, though. Or even in his head, really. He’s working on the whole “managing expectations” thing.

It works better on some days more than others. For now, he tips his head up to the desert night sky and closes his eyes, and he wishes, as carefully as he can while tipsy and melancholy, _I want to make somebody sound the way Zimms sounds when he talks to that Bitty kid._

Unfortunately for him, the universe is listening.)

 

\---    

 

The next morning, Kent Parson wakes up in his bedroom only slightly hungover. Which would not be unusual, except.

Except.

The walls have gone from their usual pale cream to a rich, vibrant blue. There are butterscotch yellow curtains on his windows, and somebody moved a bookshelf right underneath them. What the hell, did somebody move his books to this new bookshelf? They better not have messed with his system, what the hell—also, there are photos on top of the bookshelf with way nicer frames than he remembers owning. Like, they match and everything. Also, his bedside lamp now looks like it could be featured in a historical drama. Also, there’s a red cushion-y reading chair in the corner where his bean bag is supposed to be—oh, wait, there’s his bean bag. And there are his cats, sleeping on it like usual.

The part of Kent’s brain that had begun panicking calms down—if his cats are fine, it can’t be too bad. And at least the carpet is still the same, and his four-poster bedframe is still here, even if somebody got him new sheets, what the ever-living hell?

So, yeah. He knows this room. It’s his room. He’s spent the majority of his nights sleeping in this room ever since he turned twenty and bought this house. And yesterday he spent his Cup Day outside of said house. Partying it up with the boys. Until 3 a.m. Upon which he fell into his California king-sized bed, drunk as a skunk and alone except for his two adorable asshole cats.

He’s not alone now.

“What the fuck,” he says, tensing up as he registers the pair of slim, sturdy arms around his waist, the solid thighs pressed against his ass, the firm chest snuggled to his back, some stranger’s face smushed between his shoulder-blades.

It’s…actually pretty nice, physically-speaking. He has a lot of daydreams that involve waking up with somebody like this. The person behind him is a good snuggler, warm and casually possessive and pressed up all against him, just the way Kent likes. Hell, Kent is even the little spoon right now. He’s _never_ the little spoon, though admittedly he’s rarely the big spoon, either. The casual hook-ups that are his standard M.O. don’t lend themselves to people staying the night, and Kent has yet to figure out how to not scare somebody off within the first two months of dating, so relationships are out of the question, too.

So. Yeah. Kent has a lot of daydreams that start this way, but the problem is, _he’s not dreaming right now._

Or is he?

Kent pinches his forearm, feeling like an idiot as he does so, but he’s careful not to jostle his mystery bed partner anyway.

They don’t wake up, fortunately. Neither does Kent, though, less fortunately.

“What the fuck,” Kent says again.

Okay. So, not a dream? Maybe an elaborate prank? Did Swoops decide to go _Extreme Make-Over: Home Edition_ on his sorry ass? But how the fuck did he not wake up while they did this? Has he been kidnapped? Transplanted to some strange house that looks eerily like his and also has his cats? How did they move his cats without losing 10 liters of blood in the process? Purrs _hates_ leaving the house, and Kit hates anybody that makes Purrs do stuff he doesn’t want to.

Also, most importantly, who the fuck is he in bed with?

Unable to distract himself any longer with the compelling but less pressing questions of the morning, Kent steels himself and begins to turn over so he can look at the person he apparently took home last night, even though he has no memory of that happening.

This hasn’t always gone well for him in the past—scratch that, it’s _never_ gone well for him in the past. The people he tends to hook up with while black-out drunk (which he _swears_ he wasn’t last night, but how else would any of this happen?) tend to exclusively be men with dark hair and blue eyes and a strange unwillingness to sign NDAs. It’s better now that he’s out of the closet and other guys in the NHL are out, too, but he just won the Stanley Cup. He doesn’t need the tabloids bringing up how unsuitable a role model he is for the youth of America, can’t even keep his drunken gay dick in his pants, blah blah blah, while completely ignoring the fact that he’s bisexual and doesn’t even party that hard.

Still, Kent takes a deep breath and turns over, prepared to see another Jack Zimmermann look-a-like in his bed, because he’s a lot of things, and predictable in his fuck-ups is one of them.

He is _not_ expecting to see Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend sound asleep beside him, dressed in what looks like one of his old Aces’ jerseys and nothing else.

Kent stares. And stares. And stares some more. Completely eloquently, for the third time that morning, he says, “What the fuck.”

He must’ve been too loud this time, though, because Bitty finally stirs—and proceeds to snuggle even closer, jamming one of his legs between Kent’s thighs and pressing up intimately against his morning wood.

“What the fuck!” Kent repeats, because why not? He’s obviously stumbled into some strange alternate reality where Jack is going to burst in through the door any second now and murder him for cuddling up to his very taken boyfriend in nothing but his American flag boxers, Jesus Christ.

“Baby,” Bitty mumbles against his left pectoral, “go back to sleep, it’s Sunday morning.”

“I—I—what? What are you even doing here?” Kent asks, on the verge of hyperventilating. He ignores the pet name, because apparently Bittle’s delusional, too.

Bitty opens his eyes to narrow slits, an irritated pout on his face. “It’s Sunday,” he repeats. “During off-season. The day after your Cup Day. I wasn’t going to leave you alone, baby, do I look like some kind of heartless monster?”

 _No, you look like my ex-boyfriend’s boyfriend_ , Kent thinks wildly.

Bitty must register the utter confusion on his face, because his whole expression softens. “Kenny, honey,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep, and Kent wants to cry because it’s the right name said in the right tone in the worst possible voice, “I cleared my schedule, remember? No practices, no training sessions, nothing. I’m all yours today.”

And then he leans up and kisses Kent right on the mouth.

The thing is, Kent’s kissed a lot of people. Less people than the tabloids say, but still a decent amount. And he’s had flirty kisses, and dirty kisses, and desperate kisses. He’s had kisses that were dares, kisses that were accidents, kisses that were clearly mistakes but hell if he didn’t have fun making them. He’s had surprising kisses, sloppy kisses, toe-curling kisses, gasp-inducing kisses, and gag-inducing kisses. He’s had good kisses, bad kisses, solidly in-the-middle kisses. He’s had kisses that lasted a second, kisses that lasted as long as he had breath in his lungs. He’s kissed like he was looking to get slapped, he’s kissed like he didn’t care if he ended up with a public indecency charge, and he’s kissed secret and quick like he was scared somebody else would see, but he wanted to be kissed back more than he was afraid to get caught.

He’s never been kissed like this, sweet and slow and somehow lingering, even though it doesn’t last more than fifteen seconds, tops, no tongues involved, just the press of lips to lips. This is a good morning kiss, this is a “hey, I love you” kiss, this is a kiss that somehow manages to convey that they’ve had a thousand of these before and they’re scheduled to have ten thousand more, so get used to it, honey.

Kent falls into it without a second thought, his body reacting like this is the natural way of things, the way things have always been and the way things will always be. For a moment, just a moment, there aren’t any questions, any worries—there’s just Kent, and Bitty, and a kiss connecting them like their whole lives were leading up to it.

After, Bitty sighs against his mouth and pulls away, just a hint of sour morning breath between them. It’s that mundane last detail that convinces Kent that this whole thing, whatever it is, however unbelievable it may be, is real.

“’M going back to sleep, sugar,” Bitty says, dropping his head back down on Kent’s pillow like it belongs there. “Wake me up when you’ve made coffee, ’kay?” And he closes his eyes and does exactly as he says, stretching his neck out as he does so and revealing a line of hickeys that trail all the way down to his shoulder.

Kent stares a few seconds longer, then he gets out of bed and stumbles towards the bathroom, picking up his phone on the way. Except then he has to stop, because where is his Galaxy S8? Is this iPhone Bitty’s? But no, it was on his side of the bed, right?

(And what the actual living fuck, did he really just think “his side of the bed” right now? It’s his bed— _all the sides are his sides, damn it._ )

When he presses his thumb down on the home button, it automatically unlocks, though, so apparently, yes, this is his phone.

Kent immediately goes to his Instagram and that—looks mostly the same, okay. Nothing but cats and hockey and selfies with fans, as it should be. Ditto for his Twitter. But then he gets to his text messages, and things get _weird_.

He’s got texts from Swoops and Mags, a couple of conversation threads with the rest of the team, a few messages from GM about off-season meetings, a text from his mom reminding him to call her, a text from Carrie telling him to tell _Eric_ to call her, weirdly enough, and—

A most-recent conversation that isn’t from Jack Zimmermann. Instead, it’s from somebody who’s saved as _The Bae <3_.

With an odd feeling of dread and anticipation lurking in his stomach, he hits the text thread, and—

Okay. Wow. Okay.

 _The Bae_ is, indeed, Eric Bittle. Referred to almost exclusively as either _Eric_ or _baby_ or _babe_ or fucking _sunshine of my life_ because apparently alternate-universe Kent is exactly as much of a sap as original-universe Kent suspects he would be if he _had_ somebody to be a sap to, and, oh, my God, is he really going with this theory? That he’s somehow slipped into an alternate universe where he’s dating Jack’s boyfriend?

Against his better judgment, he goes to his photos folder and clicks on the first folder (also helpfully labeled _The Bae_ ) and—

Okay. Wow. Okay.

…those are a lot of dick pics. And abs pics. And butt pics. And workout selfies in general. And…they are not all Kent’s, not by a long shot.

… _okay_.

Kent gently exits that folder in a manner that is completely composed and cool and unaffected, because those photos were obviously not meant to be seen by him; also, there is no way in hell he’s attracted to any version of Bitty. Nuh-uh. Nope. Not happening.

Kent clicks the _Kit &Purrs_ folder and scrolls through photos of his adorable cats until he calms the fuck down. Then he exits that and clicks on the other folders, silently judging alternate-Kent as he does so for not encrypting his phone or something, because having nudes right there for anybody with access to his passcode to see was the height of stupid.

There’s an album titled with the heart emoji that has 218 photos, but Kent has had enough for one day and leaves it the hell alone, leaning against his sink and tilting his head back so it’s resting on the mirrors.

His gaze darts around the bathroom, which is decorated—not more _nicely_ , per se, because his original bathroom is pretty damn nice, thank you very much, that’s what interior designers are for—but in a more welcoming fashion; it looks more lived-in than he remembers it being. The hand towels have kitten paw prints on them, and the floor rug has a bright sunflower pattern on the border, and—

Oh, God, there are two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink. _Two toothbrushes._

Kent opens the medicine cabinet, and then has to close his eyes and breathe for a bit, because he recognizes everything in it: half of it is his, and half of it, mixed in amongst his hair products and his cologne and his shaving cream, is stuff that he remembers seeing in Zimms’s bathroom when he was snooping around on his last visit.

Oh, God, he’s not only dating Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend, he’s _living with him._ With Eric Richard Bittle.

He _hates_ Eric Bittle—how did this even happen? In what universe is this supposed to be possible? Most importantly, how does he escape from this hell and head back home? He cannot _possibly_ pull off being in love with Bitty, _Jack’s_ Bitty—it’s just not happening. He’s—he’s Kent’s kid sister’s age, for Christ’s sake. He’s all Southern good manners and sweetness and light, Kent’s going to kill him in the space of three days, just watch. He’s way too perfect to be real, he’s far too nice to be stomached, he’s Jack Zimmermann’s soulmate, and he’s not even Kent’s _type_. How, _how_ did this happen?

(Kent doesn’t want to be fucking him, he wants to fucking _be_ him. What the hell, universe, this isn’t anything he asked for.)

Kent takes a shaky breath and runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. Alright, he needs a game-plan, but first things first: he needs to get through his morning routine. That can’t be too different, right?

Right.

So, Kent Parson strips off his boxers and tosses them into his clothes hamper, which is still the same hamper, thank God, a detail that’s strangely calming, especially because it’s filled with a fuck-ton of clothes that are definitely a size too small for him. Jesus, does Bitty never do his own laundry? Maybe not. Maybe Jack handles that for him.

Wait, does that mean _this_ Kent is on laundry duty?

That…might be the case. Kent likes doing laundry. He always figured he might end up taking on that portion of the household chores, and now it seems like he actually did do that, in this Twilight Zone-version of his life. Weird.

Kent shrugs the thought off, gets into his shower, and grabs his body wash, which is also still the same. And there’s his loofah, still also the same, though now there are two of them—fuck, what if he grabbed the wrong one? Wait, no, the bright orange one should definitely be his; light purple is _not_ his color. The back-scrubber must be Bitty’s, though. But the dark green towel should also be his, and this razor is certainly his, yes, and yep, that’s his shaving cream, right. He knew that already.

…wow, other-him owns a lot more eyeliner than Kent was expecting, but okay. At least it’s high-end.

(He knows it’s not Bitty’s because, unlike the medicine cabinet, the drawers are pretty clearly his and his—the left side is Kent’s and the right side is Bitty’s. Bitty has a whole drawer dedicated to KT tape and Bengay, for some reason.)

Kent towels off and attempts to put both his hair and his thoughts into some semblance of order. (It’s a testament to how unruly his hair is that doing the latter is easier, even in a situation as fucked up as this.)

Kent goes over what he knows and comes to some disheartening conclusions:

  1. He’s in an alternate universe.
  2. In this alternate universe, he’s dating Eric Richard Bittle.
  3. He has no idea how he got here.
  4. Ergo, he has no idea how to get back.
  5. Alternate-Kent has probably—hopefully? Honestly, at this point he doesn’t even know if he should be grateful or not—taken his place.
  6. For the foreseeable future, he’s going to have to pretend to be alternate-Kent so as not to screw up the guy’s life, however questionable he finds his taste in men, Jesus fucking Christ.



And, last but not least:

     7. He has to pretend to be in love with Eric Richard Bittle. For the foreseeable future.

“Well,” Kent tells his reflection, “at least your high school drama classes will finally be put to good use.” His reflection smirks back at him, but even Kent can tell that it’s only two steps away from turning into a grimace.

He sighs. It’s going to be a long…indefinite period of time.

Damn it.

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This fic can also be found [on tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/166245684755). Come and say hi, or leave kudos or comments here, whatever floats your boat. ^^


	2. a door just opened on a street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The photo’s one of him sitting in Bitty’s lap, an arm slung around Bitty’s shoulders, one of Bitty’s hands resting on his waist, the other placed possessively on his knee. Kent’s smiling at the camera, his face flushed and a little silly-looking, his eyes the shade of green they get when he’s tipsy on wine or, occasionally, happiness. Bitty’s not looking at the camera at all—Bitty’s smiling at _him_ , soft and fond and just this side of smug, like he’s got Kent exactly where he wants him, like he special-ordered a lapful of drunken blond NHL-player, and Amazon delivered him a day early.
> 
> Kent places the frame back down on the bookshelf. Kent leaves the room. Kent does not take a single look at the sleeping figure resting in the bed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it continues. Chapter title is taken from the [poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/A_Door_just_opened_on_a_street_%E2%80%94) of the same name by—you guessed it—Emily Dickinson, because she is my literary jam. ;)
> 
> Note: there will be some intense making-out in this chapter of technically dubious consent because one of the participants (Bitty) is unaware that his partner (alternate-Kent) has been replaced by somebody else (original trash-fave Kent). I haven't tagged for dubious consent because I feel that's inherent in the premise, but I'd like to assure anyone who's worried that they don't get very far, and that there will be _no_ infidelity in this fic. It also strays into mild D/s territory, so be forewarned. Let me know if you have any other concerns, please  & thank you. :)

\---

 

_A Door just opened on a street —_   
_I — lost — was passing by —_   
_An instant's Width of Warmth disclosed —_   
_And Wealth — and Company._

 

\---

 

Kent keeps his towel on as he walks back into the bedroom, his left hand keeping it firmly closed while he attempts to make as little noise as possible.

This…could be overkill, considering that this Bitty not only has photographic evidence of what his dick looks like, but probably also intimate hands-on experience of what it feels like. Which—shit. He didn’t really want to think about that this early in the morning, but whatever. He can’t _do_ anything about other-Kent’s terrible life choices, but, Jesus, forgive him for not wanting somebody who’s essentially a complete stranger seeing his junk.

This proves to be a moot point, however, as the only people who stir upon his re-entry are his cats, who look up with judgmental glances before coming over and winding themselves around his legs.

“Hey, guys,” he murmurs, his throat going tight. At least his cats still recognize him; he was kinda afraid they might sense he wasn’t the Kent that belonged here and react badly. They might _still_ recognize that he’s not their Kent—he wouldn’t put it past them—but they don’t seem to mind, either way. They just want him to pet them, which he is totally capable of doing right, in any universe he finds himself in. He crouches down and scratches beneath Kit’s chin and behind Purrs’ ears, just the way they like, and they start purring up a storm.

Kent sighs. “God, your daddy is in so much trouble right now.” Kent glances at the bed involuntarily, hoping for a second that this has all been a terrible dream, but, nope, Eric Bittle is still tangled in his sheets, his mouth half-open as he drools onto Kent’s pillow. He looks like he moved over some, encroaching on Kent’s side of the bed and leaving the comforter behind him; the shift in position has rucked up the Aces’ jersey so it’s bunched around his waist, exposing baby blue briefs and thighs that look like they could crush graphite into diamonds. Holy cow, Kent did _not_ expect him to be hiding that kind of muscle beneath his Mr. Southern Gentleman slacks.

Kent tears his eyes away and heads for his walk-in closet—and then promptly wants to turn around again because, _Jesus_ , what happened to it? It’s a disaster zone. Clothes are frickin’ everywhere—draped on the dressers, piled on the floor, scattered on the shelves. His snapback stand is covered in cardigans, his sunglasses collection is obscured by sweatpants and leggings, and the box where he keeps his ties, cufflinks, etc., is buried under what must be a metric-ton of jeans and cut-offs.  

Kent is appalled. He might not be Zimms-level of color-coded organizing, but he can at least keep his closet clean. Or at least he _used_ to, before he apparently invited the ultimate clothes-gremlin to invade his life.  

Kit darts in from behind him through the still-open door and dives into the largest pile of sweater-vests. Kent decides to let her be; serves Bitty right to get cat-hair all over his clothes, what the _hell_. Kent figures out which side of the closet is his and quickly digs out a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, and pulls them on.

(He studiously ignores the drawer of matching couple gear—though, seriously? He owns an “If Found, Please Return to Eric” shirt? You better believe he’s side-eyeing other-him like there’s no tomorrow.)

Now clothed and respectable, Kent exits the closet, leaving the door ajar for whenever Kit decides to leave her nest of college-prep fashion. Purrs, on the other hand, is just chilling on top of the bookshelf, basking in a spot of sunlight; he’s obviously done this before, the framed pictures placed in a semicircle to accommodate him. Kent picks up the one furthest to the left.

It’s one of him sitting in Bitty’s lap, an arm slung around Bitty’s shoulders, one of Bitty’s hands resting on his waist, the other placed possessively on his knee. Kent’s smiling at the camera, his face flushed and a little silly-looking, his eyes the shade of green they get when he’s tipsy on wine or, occasionally, happiness. Bitty’s not looking at the camera at all—Bitty’s smiling at _him_ , soft and fond and just this side of smug, like he’s got Kent exactly where he wants him, like he special-ordered a lapful of drunken blond NHL-player, and Amazon delivered him a day early.

Funny story: this isn’t the first time Kent’s seen that look on Bitty’s face. That’s how Bitty looks at Jack. Hell, it’s how _Kent_ looks at—

Well. How he used to look at him, once upon a time.

(Gotta use past tense now, Parse. Get with the program, Parse. Why do you do this to yourself, Parse.)

Kent’s first instinct is to assume it’s been photo-shopped, even though he’s already accepted—intellectually, at least—that he’s been transported to an alternate universe. Still, his first thought is that it’s gotta be fake. Gotta be. Nobody smiles at Kent like that—nobody _wants_ him like that.

But he recognizes the couch they’re sitting on: it’s the one in his mom’s new living room in Rochester, the one piece of “good” furniture they managed to hold onto after his dad died and they had to keep moving to progressively smaller apartments. The picture also has a date in the bottom left corner in yellow digits, because his mom refuses to use any camera but her old Kodak for family photos. Combined, these two facts mean this photo’s gotta be real.

Kent places the frame back down on the bookshelf. Kent leaves the room. Kent does not take a single look at the sleeping figure resting in the bed behind him.

 

\---

 

His house is…weird.

Just—weird. Very weird.

Very, very weird.

It’s his house—it’s obviously his house, with the same number of rooms and doors and windows, and so on and so forth. The specs of it are the same, but everything else is different. Like, his original house looks good, okay? It’s 7,000 square feet of sleek, modern amenities, everything done in neutral tones with splashes of bold color here and there for personality. The furniture and decorations are all pristine, elegant, and modishly chic, and there are a few carefully-scattered knick-knacks that people can look at and use to think they’ve got a handle on who he is.

(Like a snowglobe collection is enough to validate his status as a “real person.” Ha.)

Carrie fucking hates it, says it looks like it’s straight out of some hipster magazine spread.

“It doesn’t look like anybody lives here, bro,” she’s said more than once, the nose they both inherited from their dad wrinkled in distaste.

Kent just ruffled her hair, didn’t tell her that that was sort of the point. This house isn’t meant to be a home—it’s a front, like so many other things about him. He knew when he accepted the C that his house would be a touchstone for the rest of the team, that he’d have to host parties, billet a few rookies, let the PR people come trooping through for interviews and other shit, promo vids and “inside looks” at players’ lives, yadda yadda yadda.

And Kent? He plays his cards close to the chest. If he’s letting anybody into this house, you’d better believe that they’ll only see what he wants them to see, that they get only what he’s decided it’s safe to give them.

He remembers Zimms, once, having a panic attack in his own fucking garage, paps outside the door, banging on the corrugated metal like they had any right to any fucking piece of him.

He’d just turned seventeen. This was 318 days before the draft.

“Sorry,” Zimms said afterwards, eyes red-rimmed and trained down on his obnoxious yellow sneakers, not like he was ashamed, but more like it would take more than he had in him to raise them up right then. “They do this sometimes. I should’ve warned you.” A deep, shuddering breath—then, again, “Sorry.”

Kent had stared at him, huddled over the steering wheel of his brand-new truck, fingers clutching the wheel like it was a lifeline.

He wanted to say, “Don’t you dare apologize to me, none of this is your fault.”

He wanted to say, “I’ll fucking take a stick to their cameras the next time they try something like this.”

He wanted to say, “I won’t ever let this happen to you again.”

He didn’t say anything. He was dumb. He was seventeen. He’d crawled into Jack Zimmermann’s lap and shoved his tongue into his mouth like he could suck all the sadness and fear out of him if he tried hard enough, and Jack?

Jack had put shaky hands on his face and let him.

When he bought this house, he made sure that it had fences, that it had terrible lines of sight, that it had the type of security that would make a paranoiac cry with joy. That it was at the end of a cul-de-sac down a narrow street that was frequently mistaken for a dead-end if you didn’t know what to look for.

“Jesus Christ, but your place is impossible to find,” Swoops would complain, and Kent would laugh and think that that was the point, duh.

When he bought this house, he wanted a fortress, he wanted a haven, he wanted wide, open foyers and pretty, empty rooms for the cameras and the guests and the strangers, and he wanted the heart of the house tucked away, hidden down long hallways and thick, wooden doors, a space as safe and as private as he could make it.

Hence, the impeccable, just-shy-of-impersonal décor. Hence, the three living rooms with no pictures except carefully-shot publicity photos. Hence, the only places that looked lived-in being the rec room in the basement, the home gym in the garage, and the guest bedroom Kent converted into his cats’ personal nirvana.

That house? Is not this house.

If this house were a magazine spread, it would not be featured in _Architectural Digest_ , but in _Country Living_ —except that this house would never be featured in any magazine whatsoever because it’s way too _real_ to make it onto glossy, carefully-done pages as-is. The same touch of vivid color and lived-in warmth that had taken over his bedroom has likewise invaded the rest of the house—gone are the beiges and the off-white walls, gone are the slate-gray accents and hints of artful, post-modern reds. Instead, Kent has hallways of bright green, moldings painted in soft, pale yellows, and living rooms that are each a different shade of blue. Gone are his sleek black sofas, his glass-and-metal coffee tables, his wrought-iron barstools. Instead it’s orange and red throw pillows on wide, comfy couches, cute little side tables covered with cheerful linens, and slightly scratched-up mahogany furniture covered in coasters, magazines, and way more scarves than would normally be needed in Vegas. Then again, Kent makes his living in ice rinks, so he guesses it’s not too much of a stretch.

Kent wanders through the house, feeling like he’s stumbled into an alternate reality—oh, wait. He has. No wonder he’s so disoriented. God, what the hell is up with the clothes situation, though? They’re everywhere: socks and sweaters and jackets and the aforementioned scarves—every conceivable form of outerwear is just scattered about. The entry hallway is littered with shoes and has a coat rack that’s somehow full, and it looks like no less than five sports bags exploded all over the floor. His front closet has a sign on it that reads _Lost & Found_. Tacked on underneath it is a post-it note that says, _NO, Gopher, this doesn’t mean “Finders Keepers,”_ which is fucking accurate. Clearly whoever wrote it knows Gopher well. And there are gloves? Everywhere? Why? They’re not even hockey gloves, what on earth is going on?

There’s also—there’s just so much _decoration_ , and it’s decoration that means something.

There are houseplants in every room, fake flowers in vases on a few tables and bookshelves, _real_ flowers in vases on all the _other_ tables and bookshelves, and, oh, look, more tall lamps that could’ve been stolen off the set of a BBC drama. His bookshelves have way more paranormal romance than he normally leaves out in the open, plus a bunch of cookbooks and YA lit that’ve _gotta_ belong to Bitty. His sound-system has been moved out of the rec room into one of the living rooms. The office is now half an office, half a room dedicated to his guitar and a keyboard, EDC and Beyoncé posters covering the walls in equal measure.

In the rec room, there’s hockey memorabilia, a shit-ton of signed stuff from different sports teams he follows, and a series of his framed jerseys, which he’d never put up, even though he’d wanted to, because otherwise the guys would’ve chirped him all the way back to Rochester. Plus, it seemed like a douche move, you know? Like he was boasting. He doesn’t really get what’s changed here, but okay. Maybe this Kent is more comfortable being a show-off.

In a few rooms, there are paintings of mountains, waterfalls, soothing things that settle something in Kent’s gut just looking at them. There are—wait, there’s a photo collage of every city he’s played in, what the hell, plus a few random ones that apparently Bitty’s visited, because Kent’s sure as hell never been to—Sapporo? Sapporo. Or Yekaterinburg, for that matter. The collage is right next to a world map with a few pins on it. Upon closer inspection, the pins have labels attached that read _Kenny, Eric, Carrie, Mama Parse, Mama B, Coach, Purrs, Kit, Swoops, MAGS THE QUEEN,_ and _Chowder_. Mama B and Coach are in Georgia; Mama Parse is in Rochester; Carrie is in Boston; Chowder is in San Jose, and everybody else is in Vegas, except Vegas isn’t labeled Vegas, it’s labeled _Home Sweet Home_.

Which. Okay, that’s cute, but why? _Why?_

Kent feels himself blushing just from second-hand embarrassment at how sappy his other self is.

There aren’t as many photos as he’d expected, weirdly enough, but the ones that are there are very…telling. He’s not sitting in Eric’s lap for any of them, but.

But.

Their shoulders are always brushing. Bitty’s always got a hand snuck around his waist, or an arm looped around his, in a manner that should look friendly but is decidedly not. Kent’s face is always either about to crack open from the force of his doofus-smile or turned to face Bitty with hearts in his eyes. Bitty’s head is always tilted just a little towards whichever side Kent is standing.

There are pictures of Kent with his team, Kent with the Little Aces, Kent with his family, Kent with his cats—but they’re vastly outnumbered by the photos of just Bitty and Kent. Or, strangely enough, Bitty and Kent and what must be Bitty’s friend group: an Asian guy with shaggy bleached hair and a sunny smile who’s an inch or two shorter than Bitty. A young Latina woman with glasses, really on-point eyebrows, and the ultimate RBF. A battle-axe of a middle-aged white woman, her dark hair pulled into a bun. The Sharks’s alternate goalie, that Chris Chow dude who’s responsible for more shut-outs against the Aces than Kent likes to think about; he’d know those shoulders anywhere just from hours of reviewing tape, fucking Christ, that man is a menace.

But he’s about the only Samwell person Kent recognizes. Instead, there’re a bunch of photos of Kent with Bitty, Chow, and _Carrie’s_ friends—Brea with her locs tied back and a crooked smirk on her face, using Bitty and Kent’s heads as armrests. Matt and Hannah laughing with Bitty and Carrie in Kent’s kitchen. Rashmi and Kent crying together at an Imagine Dragons concert, Carrie and Bitty standing to the side and exchanging knowing looks.

A fuck-ton of just Carrie, Bitty, and Kent photos, where _Kent_ looks like a third-wheel and Carrie and Bitty look like some All-American power couple, what the hell.

Kent thinks back to that text he saw of Carrie telling him to tell Bitty to call her, and wonders how, exactly, did Bitty become so chummy with his Carrie-girl.

That thought fades into the background when he finally makes it into the kitchen, though, because wow. Okay. Wow.

Kent stands there in the doorway as his eyes bug out.

Alright, true confession? His kitchen is modeled after the one they have for _America’s Test Kitchen_ , all wood panels and miles of counter space and drawers lined up like soldiers holding instruments of gourmet cooking. Why? Because that’s the cooking show they had on PBS, and therefore it’s the one he grew up thinking was the ideal kitchen, the kitchen he wanted his mom to have, once he bought her a house to have it in. So she has that kitchen now in Rochester, and he has it here in Vegas. He barely uses it, but the fridge is well-stocked and the shelves are packed with cereal and Cool Ranch Doritos for when he’s too lazy to put his Le Cordon Bleu lessons to use.

(That episode of his life was back when Swoops was low-key stalking Mags and “coincidentally” showing up to all her extra-curricular activities, with Kent in tow as the loyal wingman to provide plausible deniability. Swoops picked up Mags and a lifetime ban from Le Cordon Bleu; Kent picked up fancy chopping techniques and enough blackmail material to ensure Swoops’ future children have no respect for their father’s cooking skills whatsoever.

Seriously. Ask him about the time when the white powder Swoops mistook for confectioners’ sugar was _not_ salt, but baking soda. _Ask him._ )

But anyway, whatever is good enough for Christopher Kimball is good enough for him.

Correction: was.

Other-him decided that the wall between the kitchen and dining room is unnecessary. Other-him decided that wooden countertops are better than marble ones. Other-him decided that glass panels on shelves should be a thing. That two ovens are better than one, and that three islands are better than two, and that an additional small refrigerator built into one of the islands is completely necessary, and also that it should be full of nothing but butter and heavy whipping cream. That all his cooking utensils should be hanging out in the open at a height guaranteed to smack him in the face. That he ought to stack no less than _seven_ sets of measuring cups off to the side like a weird matryoshka collection. That his pantry be dedicated solely to a bajillion bags of flour. That he should own enough pie tins and cookie sheets to build a space shuttle. That falling prey to the hipster trend of having mason jars everywhere is perfectly acceptable. That he can be trusted to try and keep an indoor herb garden alive, like, wow, that’s a _great_ idea.

And that his whole kitchen should smell like stale baked goods and sour milk because _apparently_ other-Kent’s heavy-duty, industrial-sized dishwasher is only there for show.

“What the fuck,” Kent says. He goes straight for his stainless-steel sinks, turns the hot water on high, and blasts the shit out of the mountain of dirty dishes, the wobbly tower of batter-encrusted mixing bowls, and the ominously melded-together sculpture of whisks, spatulas, and measuring spoons. He grabs the dish soap, pumps out a few dollops, then decides to just fuck it and unscrews the cap, pouring out half the container over the whole mess.

Jesus Christ, how long has this stuff been sitting here? Is that mold? That better not be mold. His mama didn’t raise no slob. They might’ve been dirt-poor, but they weren’t _dirty_. Just—this whole level of mess was unacceptable, didn’t Bittle ever learn to clean up after himself?

Agitated and appalled, Kent leaves the remains of Bitty’s sacrifice to the baking gods to soak and dries his hand on an Aces-themed dish towel (which, wow, they actually sell stuff like that? Kent makes a mental note to peruse the home goods section of their merch when he gets back, because it looks like they’ve been holding out on him). Purrs wanders over and butts his head against Kent’s ankle, yowling pointedly.

“Yeah, yeah, buddy, I got you covered,” he mutters. At least the cat food’s in the same place.

While Purrs munches contentedly on his Fancy Feast kibbles, Kent opens the refrigerator to sort out his own breakfast situation, bracing himself for anything from vats of butter to nothing but pie crusts.

It looks like Jack’s refrigerator does, filled with pies and casseroles, except instead of post-it notes declaring things to be _For Jack ONLY_ (as if Kent wants to eat baked goods made with Eric Bittle’s WholesomePureLove™) everything is now labeled _EAT THIS AND DIE_ , _VINEY_ , or _PROPERTY OF ERIC_ , or _I POISONED THIS JUST FOR YOU, GOPHER_ , or _Swoops, I made this for Maggie, DON’T FORGET IT!_

There is also a pad-locked drawer. Literally pad-locked, by the way, like whoever had it installed didn’t trust Kent’s team to leave it the hell alone, and okay, fair enough. His guys are definitely “eat first, regret never” types. The post-it note on it is just a badly drawn dick, though, which…? Why? Like, yeah, he likes eating dick, but the drawer is clearly full of pies, so what the hell? Kent peels it off, certain that he recognizes Gopher’s unique artistic style, and discovers that the post-it note was covering a label that reads  _Sweets for My Sweetie <3_.

It’s written in looping cursive with a heart dotting the “i.”

Kent sticks the dick back on, his stomach roiling with what is definitely disgust. Definitely. That label makes him want to puke, not melt into the floor, and anyone who says otherwise is not in possession of all the facts.

He shuts the door, then opens it to grab the milk carton, then shuts it closed again, very firmly and with emphasis.

“We tell no one,” he says to Purrs.

Purrs gives him another judgmental glance. Kent is beginning to understand why he seems to be getting more of those than usual.

Thirty minutes later, Kent has made coffee, eaten a bowl of Oreo O’s (the box was in the shelf above the fridge, for some odd reason), fed Kit after she returned from the depths of closet-land, and made decent headway into the dishes. The time is 8:45 a.m., two hours after he first woke up in this hell, and Eric Richard Bittle is still asleep. Kent has _America’s Top 40_ on low, and he’s singing along to Nicki Minaj’s latest single when his phone rings, playing “Bad Reputation.”

Kent picks up without even thinking about it. “Yo, wassup, Carrie-girl,” he says, putting the call on speaker.

“So didja do it?” she asks without preamble, and _then_ Kent remembers that this Carrie is not his Carrie.

(Though in every universe, Kent Virgil Parson is unquestionably Carrie’s, no matter where he’s from or who he is or what he does. Always.)

“Uh,” he says in a brilliant move to buy time. Not because he has no idea what to say, no, whatever gave you that idea? Kent Parson has never been speechless in his entire life.

Carrie sighs, exasperated and fond, and this at least is familiar. This he can work with. “You didn’t, did you? I figured not, since Eric didn’t blow up our group chat last night, but it’s July, Kenny. When are you going to pop the question?”

 _Pop the question?_ Kent’s stomach drops. No way. No fucking way. Get out of here, man. No. No, there’s just no way she could be possibly talking about—about—

“What question?” he says.

“The ‘will-you-marry-me’ question, you big doof,” Carrie says. “Don’t play stupid, bro.”

“But—but—isn’t that a big step?” Kent asks wildly. “Shouldn’t it—shouldn’t it—” Shouldn’t it _wait_ , he thinks. Shouldn’t he put it off until _never?_ Fuck it, doesn’t alternate-Kent think he should at least hold out until he’s thirty? Who gets married at twenty-nine anymore?

And to Eric Richard Bittle? Come _on,_ he’s basically a kid! Isn’t that illegal?

He can practically hear Carrie rolling her eyes. “Kenny, I know you want it to be perfect, but you’ve had the ring for six months now. You botched the Valentine’s Day proposal, you choked on his birthday, and now even Plan C has fallen through, unless one of the other guys takes pity and lets you use his day for it.”

He was going to propose using the Stanley Cup? What the fuck, other-self, way to be a walking cliché. “Hrn,” he says, biting his tongue before he can start laughing bitterly and blow his cover to smithereens.

“I’m just saying, Eric would be happy if you proposed in the grocery aisle,” Carrie continues, oblivious to his mental torment. “Take it from me. I mean, I _am_ his future Best Woman.”

“Best Woman?” Kent croaks.

“Yeah, me and Chowder have already agreed to tag-team it. You know, when you finally get your ass in gear and ask the damn question,” Carrie continues. “And don’t complain, you know I’ll be part of your party, too, but he was _my_ best friend before he became your boyfriend, so you can just—”

Carrie stops, then demands, “Are you washing the dishes?”

Kent realizes he left the water running. “Yeah,” he answers, picking up another mixing bowl and rinsing it out.

Carrie snorts. “Wow, you lasted four days, Kenny. What a hold-out. What a champ. This is exactly why he’s never going to clean up after himself.”

Kent’s mouth drops open in outrage. She’s saying this mess was on purpose? That Bitty planned this? And what does she mean, four days? This is what happens after _four days?_ Impossible. Kent calls bullshit; it should be a crime for anyone to be this messy.

“ _What the hell_ ,” he says. “What am I, his maid?”

“Seeing as you’re doing the dishes again, yeah,” Carrie says, ruthlessly amused in her schadenfreude. “Tell me you at least left the closet alone.”

“Yeah. It looks like a pig-sty,” Kent grumbles.

“And I’m telling you, if you hide his favorite leggings, it’ll force him to organize things until he finds them,” Carrie lectures.

“Caroline Grace Parson,” a voice drawls from the archway, saying her name as if it rhymed with _wine_ and not _win_ , “why are you sharing your cruel and nefarious methods with your brother? Is this not a betrayal of everything good and right in our friendship?”

Kent whirls around to see Bitty shuffle forward, his hair a tousled mess, his collarbones and hickeys on full display, his eyes dark and glinting with clear amusement as he makes a beeline straight for Kent.

He’s still not wearing pants, just the briefs, which are barely covered by the hem of the jersey. For some reason, Kent’s brain helpfully reminds him that he now knows what Bitty looks like without the briefs, too.

“Hi,” Kent croaks. He’s not blushing. He’s not. It’s just the heat—he lives in a desert, you know. Totally normal to turn red as a lobster here in Vegas in the mornings. Totally.

“Stop saying my name wrong!” Carrie says, laughing. “And at least say good afternoon first!”

“Good _morning_ , traitor,” Bitty replies, cheerful, looping his arms around Kent’s waist and snuggling in. “And good morning to you, too, my handsome, wonderful, gorgeous man. Look at you, taking such good care of me,” he murmurs against Kent’s chest. “Making me coffee, doing the dishes—thank you so much.”

“Uh,” Kent says, going stiff—wait, no, his _body_ goes stiff, as in his _spine_ , specifically, not. Not other bits. Whatever. He tells his heart to calm the fuck down and places his arms around Bitty, keeping his hands carefully in the middle of Bitty’s back. “You’re welcome,” he answers, doing his best to sound normal, which is probably out-of-character now that he thinks about it, considering how sappy other-Kent is based on all the evidence.

“Whipped,” Carrie says, knowingly amused.

“Hey!” Kent protests, because no, he’s really not.

“Kenny, you literally folded right now just because he stroked your ego! He’s a grown man, he can clean up after himself—you just need to stop giving in whenever he looks at you with bedroom eyes,” Carrie replies.

“You hush now, Carrie,” Bitty says, grinning. “It’s summer. Let us boys be slobs in peace.”

“Mama didn’t raise no slobs,” Carrie and Kent say together, and Bitty plants his face against Kent’s neck and giggles, high and sweet. It tickles; Kent gasps, squirming in his embrace.

In response, Bitty parts his lips and licks him.

Kent gasps louder.

“Uh-oh,” Carrie says, her voice tinged with perceptive humor. “That is my cue to say goodbye.”

Kent flushes in embarrassment. “Um—”

“Bye, Carrie,” Bitty answers promptly.

“Bye, Eric,” Carrie says. “Call me later,” she adds sternly.

“Will do,” Bitty says. He reaches out and ends the call. “Now, where were we?” Bitty murmurs, his hands sneaking under Kent’s t-shirt and tracing up his back.

“In the kitchen,” Kent says. “Doing the dishes.”

Bitty narrows his eyes at him speculatively. “You could be doing me instead.”

Kent can’t help it; he bursts out laughing. “Oh, my God, those types of lines do not work on me at all,” he wheezes in between his awkward snorting gasps.

Bitty glares up at him, but his mouth twitches at the corners, giving his game away. “Why, Mr. Parson,” he says, all false outrage, “are you questioning my dirty-talking skills?”

“Do you even have any?” Kent quips, automatic, because most of him still thinks of Bitty as the sweet, innocent kid who wooed Jack with the pure goodness of his heart.

This Bitty’s eyes go dark and hungry, his face alive with challenge and warmth and not a small amount of lust. “Oh, sugar,” he says. “You should’ve said it was going to be one of those mornings.”

Kent blinks. “Huh?”

That’s all he gets to say, because the hand that was resting on his back moves up into his hair and tugs _hard_. Kent’s head falls back and his breath hisses out of him, surprised, and Bitty takes full advantage by leaning up and kissing him, warm and insistent. Kent barely has a moment to gasp before Bitty’s tongue slides between his lips, tracing the sensitive roof of his mouth before rubbing filthily against his own.

 _Holy fuck_ , Kent thinks, his brain torn between arousal and sheer shock.

Then Bitty jams his thigh between Kent’s legs, all firm muscle and smooth pressure and, fuck, Kent can feel how hard he is, grinding up on Kent right here against the kitchen sink, what the hell. Bitty’s free hand goes to Kent’s chest and thumbs his nipple through his shirt, a dirty, dirty tease, and _Jesus_ , there go his knees.

Kent buckles, literally starts sliding down the cabinets, but Bitty’s hips are there to hold him pinned, and Kent should _not_ find that hot, but he does, God, does he ever. Bitty just keeps _kissing_ him, and _touching_ him, the hand in his hair moving down to grope his ass shamelessly, Bitty’s mouth detaching from his to suck at the join in his jaw, that one spot that always had him shaking and moaning and just flat-out begging Jack to fuck him already when they were teenagers. Nobody’s been able to find it since, but apparently Bitty knows right where it is, can play his body like a fucking violin. Kent’s never gone from zero to sixty so fast in his life, holy Mother of God, is this what happens when you fuck the same person enough times? They find out what really gets you revved and ready?

“You sound so good,” Bitty says, low and possessive and so knowing that Kent wants to hide almost as much as he wants to keen out loud. “Sugar, you sound so good begging like that.”

And Kent snaps his eyes open because, holy shit, he’s been running his mouth this whole time and he didn’t even realize it, a litany of _please_ and _fuck_ and _I need it, I need you_ making their way out of his mouth without permission.

Kent’s up against the kitchen sink, about two seconds from coming in his pants, and he doesn’t even have a hand on his dick or fingers in his ass. All because of Bitty.

Because of _Bitty._

“Wait,” Kent says. “Wait, I can’t.”

This is—this is wrong, this is Jack’s boyfriend, this is—this is _other-Kent’s_ boyfriend, and if Kent had somebody of his own, he wouldn’t want alternate-Kent fucking them in his own home, God damn it.

Bitty stops immediately and pulls back, a worried frown on his face. “Too much?” he asks. He runs a soothing hand down Kent’s side.

Kent nods his head, tongue thick in his mouth as he tries to speak. “Yeah,” he says, stuttering some.

Bitty scrunches up his nose. “Sorry, sugar, I thought you wanted it like that.” He reaches down and grabs Kent’s hand, leading him into the dining room and pushing him down onto the couch positioned against the wall.

Kent furrows his brows. “Why do we have this couch here?”

Bitty snickers. “Oh, honey, you’re so funny,” he says, like they’re sharing an inside joke—except they’re not, since Kent really would like to know. He opens his mouth to repeat his question, but Bitty starts kissing him again, slow and deep this time, thorough like they have all day to do it.

Kent loses a few minutes.

“Better?” Bitty murmurs, and Kent mumbles agreeably and tries to find his mouth again.

“You’re so sweet,” Bitty says. “You’re so good.” The heel of his hand finds Kent’s hard-on and rubs gently, and Kent’s arching up into the touch before he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t.

“Damn it,” Kent says, his head thumping back against the couch.

Bitty tilts his head, perched in his lap like he belongs there. “What, baby?”

“I, um. I—” Kent waves a hand, trying to come up with a good excuse for why he can’t sleep with Bitty, good enough to convince his almost-fiancé. Maybe he can come up with one to convince himself, too.

Bitty’s expression goes from puzzled to accusatory. “You didn’t,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Huh?” Kent blinks at him.

“Kent Virgil Parson,” Bitty says, accent thickening in his annoyance, “please tell me you did not make another stupid bet where losing meant you gotta abstain from sex. Please.”

Kent looks up at him, surprised at this unexpected opportunity. “I’m sorry,” he says, doing his best to paste on an expression of regret and remorse. It’s not as difficult to do as he once expected, considering that not two hours ago he’d have sworn the thought of fucking Bitty would make him want to barf.

Newsflash: it does not.

Kent continues, deciding to embellish the lie, “It was—”

“If you say it’s Gopher’s fault, I’m gonna strangle you,” Bitty says.

Kent _had_ been about to say that, mostly because Gopher was the likely candidate for instigating these types of wagers. Kent’s penalties usually didn’t involve sexual abstinence since it was rare for him to have a partner long enough for it to matter, and the guys knew he didn’t sleep around much anyway. Giving up chocolate or the window seat on planes was his usual punishment for a lost bet, but apparently alternate-Kent wasn’t so lucky. “I’m sorry,” Kent repeats.

Bitty sighs. “How long this time?”

Kent scrambles. “Three weeks?” he hedges. Three weeks should be long enough for him to figure out how to get back home, right?

Right?

“Three  _weeks!”_ Bitty looks like he’s _this_ close to murdering Kent. “Kenny, sugar, you’re telling me you gave up _three weeks_ of _off-season?”_

Kent nods.

Bitty groans. “Kenny. Honey. Sweetheart. Darlin’. Apple of my perfect pies, what were you _thinking?”_

“Um. Well.”

“Don’t answer that question.” Bitty tips his head back and massages his temples. “Lord help me, what’ll I do with this boy,” he mutters, and Kent’s heart squeezes. He’s overheard Bitty talk like that about Jack, fond and exasperated and like he’s in it for the long haul, but he’d like everyone in the vicinity to know that it takes some work, thank you very much.

“Sorry,” Kent says again, looking down at Bitty’s knees where they’re straddling his thighs.

Bitty softens. “Don’t feel too bad, baby,” he says, his anger seemingly wiped from existence, like Kent being sad is enough to get him to cave. He slides a hand into Kent's hair. “I know you probably meant well. Was it a bet about the Little Aces?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, leaning his head into Bitty’s fingers scratching gently at his scalp.

Bitty sighs. “Of course it was. You know, I know this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, but I’m telling you this had _better_ be the last,” he warns.

“It will,” Kent promises.

Bitty pecks him on the cheek and gets off his lap; Kent does his best not to grab his hips and pull him back. “Alright, sugar, now tell me what you want for breakfast.”

“Oh, I ate already,” Kent says.

“Egg whites and sausage, I’m guessing?” Bitty says, a teasing lilt to his voice as he stands up.

Kent grins back. “Nah, just my Oreo O’s.”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “That is _not_ a proper breakfast, Mr. Parson. Here, let me whip something up for you real quick, and you can finish doing the dishes.”

“Sure, sure,” Kent agrees, taking the easy out and ambling after him. He only realizes his mistake when he catches Bitty’s triumphant smirk in the reflection of one of the glass cabinets. “Hey!” he says. “They’re your dishes!”

“Nah-nah-nah,” Bitty says, clapping his hands over his ears. “What? I can’t hear you over the sound of your blue balls screaming for relief for the next three weeks.”

Kent does his best to scowl. “I said it wasn’t my fault,” he whines, resting his chin on Bitty’s shoulder and ignoring how easy it is, how natural it feels to fall into the patterns that Bitty sets for him.

 _It’s fine_ , Kent thinks. _It’s just acting. It’s not even real._

“You tell yourself that, sugar,” Bitty says, open and warm. “You tell yourself that.”

Kent closes his eyes and thinks a little louder: _Not real, not real, not real._

It works, he thinks.

( _For now_ , he won’t admit—but then again, Kent Parson has always been very good at lying to himself.)

 

\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a big thank you to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com) for kindly agreeing to be my beta. In addition to writing the post that inspired the fic, she talked me through scenarios & headcanons, and basically helped keep my enthusiasm alive while writing this. ~~That being said—DISCLAIMER that the second half of this chapter has not been beta-read yet because of _me_ , the author, and will be properly edited ASAP when gutsybitsies has the time.~~
> 
> ETA: The whole chapter has now been edited, and is now ten times more coherent! Thank you, gutsybitsies! ^^ 
> 
> If you want to see more messy-frat-boy!Bitty, take a gander over to [these headcanons](http://abominableobriens.tumblr.com/post/166188588392/oluranurse-abominableobriens-oluranurse), which seriously influenced me. Also, just a heads-up, I'm trying for consistent Sunday updates, so keep an eye out then! Thanks. :)
> 
> Thank you also to everyone who read, commented, left kudos, etc., etc. You make my day! ^^ 
> 
> Finally, this chapter can also be found [on tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/166492437820/theres-a-certain-slant-of-light-ch-2). Come say hi! :D


	3. i see thee better in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent wakes up in bed alone. 
> 
> He _never_ wakes up in bed alone. Eric loathes getting up early with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, a hatred burned into him by way too many 4 a.m. practice drills with Katya back in the day.
> 
> “What the fuck?” he mumbles, stretching a hand out in search of his boyfriend while slapping the other hand over his eyes to block out the sun. “Eric? Baby, how the fuck are you awake right now? Come back to bed, it’s Sunday morning. And close the damn curtains, would you? The light is killing me.”
> 
> There is no answer, and the sheets are stone-cold to the touch.
> 
> "What the fuck?" Kent says again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I am back for your regularly-scheduled update! Chapter title taken from this [poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/I_see_thee_better_%E2%80%94_in_the_Dark_%E2%80%94), by my resident favorite poet, Emily Dickinson. 
> 
> ETA: Warnings for references to Jack's overdose, some canon-typical alcohol usage, and non-graphic mentions of Kent engaging in underage sex with Jack, as well as his past sexual encounters while under the influence of alcohol. Let me know if I have to warn for anything else! :)
> 
> ETA 2: The song referenced in this chapter is Hozier's _[Work Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=1&v=nH7bjV0Q_44)_ , which is honestly my favorite of his. Forgive my self-indulgence; I could not resist. ^^
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please enjoy this (ridiculously long, omg) chapter. :)

\---

 

 _I see thee better — in the Dark —_  
_I do not need a Light —_  
_The Love of Thee — a Prism be —_  
_Excelling Violet —_

 

\---

 

These are the facts: Kent Virgil Parson is the captain of the Las Vegas Aces. He has recently led his team through their eighth play-off run, their fifth championship finals, and their third Stanley Cup win. He is the proud owner of two adorable cats. His favorite color is a very specific shade of sky blue. He’s not allergic to peanuts, but his sister is, so he grew up never eating them in solidarity. He doesn’t know how to play poker, but he’s decent at both bridge and pinochle, and he’s been banned from six different casinos for card-counting in blackjack. The last movie he saw in theatres was _Top Gun 2_ , and he regrets it intensely. He just turned twenty-nine, and he spent his birthday with his mother and his sister in Rochester, New York, where he was born and mostly raised.

In almost every universe, these facts hold true.

Here’s another fact:

In almost every universe, Kent Parson falls in love with Jack Zimmermann.

In almost every universe, he loses him.

Sometimes it’s sooner rather than later: a car crash during off-season. A bad concussion when they’re sixteen. An overdose in Victoriaville. An overdose in Halifax. An overdose in Quebec City.

Sometimes it’s later rather than sooner: an argument in Seattle. A brunette with braces smiling in a bookstore. An overdose in Vegas. An overdose in Vegas. An overdose in Vegas.

Most universes, it’s the draft. It’s a name taken off the visitors’ list in a rehab center in Montreal. It’s seventy-two unanswered phone calls. It’s a constant scream of anger and guilt and blame and resentment until neither of them have the breath to sustain it anymore.

Here’s another fact:

In _every_ universe in which this happens, Kent Parson blames himself. Then he blames Jack Zimmermann. Then he circles back around to blaming himself, and most times it sticks. Most times he believes himself to be both ruined and ruinous, and this twinned belief lasts him through most of his twenties, right up until he manages to forgive Jack Zimmermann. Right up until he manages to forgive himself.

It’s a long, uphill, and frankly thankless battle, but he wages it and wins more times than he loses.

(Kent Parson, if you tell him this next fact, will laugh in disbelief, but that doesn’t negate its truth: though there are several universes where he loses, there is no universe in which he leaves the battle unfought.

In every universe, Kent Parson tries. Let’s not prevaricate—he is a riot of chaos and carnage inflicted on both himself and others, he piles mistakes on top of mistakes, he is cruel and destructive and in need of every ounce of mercy he is working towards, oh, yes. Oh, yes.

But this boy, he _tries_.)

Here is another fact, true for every Kent Virgil Parson that is lucky enough to meet Eric Richard Bittle:

When he meets him, Eric Bittle is always talking to someone that Kent Parson loves with every fiber of his being. Eric Bittle is always smiling, and Kent Parson will always, always lose his breath just a little to see it.

In one universe, they meet in a frat house in Massachusetts in the dead of winter, and Eric is smiling at Jack Zimmermann. Kent Parson has the breath punched out of him by a combination of jealousy and spite, in the knowledge that here stands his replacement. Here stands everything Jack chose over him, everything he decided was more important than the dreams they whispered to each other in the dark, during those thirty-four perfect days before the draft.

Ah, but you know this story already, don’t you?

Instead, let’s consider another universe, one just seven steps removed from this one—in this universe, Kent Parson takes four steps to the left, and Eric Bittle takes three to the right. Somehow, miraculously, they meet in the middle.

Shall we count the steps?

Step one: Eric Richard Bittle didn’t quit figure skating. Instead, he made it to Nationals when he was seventeen, shoulders heaving, thighs shaking, face about to crack from the force of his smile when they posted the final scores—silver’s not bad, not bad at all, and Coach had promised if he made podium, he and Mama would consider letting him try for the 2014 Olympics. In his mind, he was already on a flight to Sochi.

Step two: That same year in June, Kent Virgil Parson held open the elevator doors for a woman and her daughter. The daughter was a fan; she recognized him. You wouldn’t think this would make much of a difference, but he spent an extra thirteen minutes chatting with the girl and letting her mother take photos of them. The mother had recently acquired a smartphone, and she was still getting the hang of it; the photos took a while to come out right. Kent Parson smiled and assured them it wasn’t any trouble, and waved them goodbye. Because of the extra thirteen minutes, Kent Parson did not encounter a yellow light that he was confident he could beat. He did not get pulled over by a local traffic cop for speeding; he was not issued his third 4-point driving violation in as many months; he was not assigned to complete a DMV-approved safety course by the State of Nevada. He avoided his teammates’ scorn and relentless chirping, and his sister’s equally relentless claims of being a better driver.

This also meant he was free to accompany his mother and sister on the first half of their tours of West Coast colleges; Carrie was an incoming senior, but she wanted to be prepared, and Kent had money to burn, so why not?    

The tenth college (out of twenty-six total, East and West and Midwest included, Jesus, Carrie, _okay_ —he was starting to suspect they just wanted to go on a cross-country road-trip, but with an agenda so they didn’t get side-tracked) was the University of Denver. They were literally only going because Mags graduated from there, and also because Jerome, his favorite scout for the Aces, wanted him to check out a D-man on their hockey team.

Step three: Since Eric Richard Bittle never quit figure skating, his top pick was the University of Denver, because they offered him a scholarship and they had ten hours of dedicated ice time _daily_ for just the figure skaters. _Just_ the figure skaters. (Also, if you want to get anywhere in jump training, the coaches in Colorado were a pretty safe bet. Also, that was where Michelle Kwan graduated from, and what was good enough for her was good enough for anyone. Also, their GSA president looked very cute in the photos on their Facebook page, but that was neither here nor there. Or at least that’s what Eric had told Kent when he recounted his side of the story.)

He and his mother went to visit the campus in late July.

Step four: In late July, Kent Virgil Parson and his sister sat in a diner in Denver and ordered forty-four dollars and fifty-nine cents’ worth of brunch and coffee, tax included, tip not yet factored in. Unfortunately, Kent appeared to have forgotten his wallet in the back pocket of his other pair of jeans, which were back in his bag in their hotel room. Incidentally, this was the same hotel room where their mother was taking an afternoon nap, and thus didn’t hear her phone ringing. Between the two of them, they had exactly three dollars and eighteen cents in hard cash, ten of those cents being a dime Carrie had found in their booth. Kent was on his last waffle; Carrie saw the waitress heading their way, and was completely and understandably mortified.

Thankfully, Denver is somewhat of a hockey town. The waitress recognized Kent Parson, captain of the Aces. The diner owner was a die-hard Avalanche fan, but she let Kent leave his Rolex and an autograph as collateral while he went and fetched his wallet. Carrie was welcome to stay and eat some more while he did so.

Step five: Eric Richard Bittle and Suzanne Melinda Bittle, née Phelps, walked into a local diner for an early lunch. Suzanne Bittle was delighted by the look of their peach cobbler and charmed the owner into giving her the recipe, as well as a free sample. Eric Bittle exchanged an amused glance with the girl in the booth next to his.

She was wearing a Pioneers snapback over wayward, blond, chin-length hair, and her jeans-jacket had a row of buttons pinned to it, the designs ranging from Daisy Duck to Sailor Moon, Paramore to the Pride flag.

“Hey,” he asked, eager to make a friend, “do you go to DU?”

Caroline Grace Parson smiled back at him, tentative and shy. This was Carrie at not-quite-seventeen; she hadn’t yet learned to be bold around anyone she didn’t trust. “No, but maybe next year,” she said. Earlier this summer, she’d had her heart set on NYU, but the campus here was beautiful, and it was a lot closer to Vegas than New York. UCLA or USC would be closer still, but they were so much _bigger_. After visiting, she wasn’t sure she was ready for bigger just yet.

Eric’s whole face lit up with joy. “Me, too!” he exclaimed. He stuck a hand over the diner booth dividers. “My name’s Eric. I’m a senior from Georgia.”

“Carrie,” she answered, taking it. “From New York.”

Step six: This was technically the step least divergent from the first universe—do you recall the constant of every first meeting between Kent Virgil Parson and Eric Richard Bittle, should the former have been lucky enough to have meet the latter in any given universe?

They always, always met while Eric was talking to someone that Kent Parson loved with every fiber of his being.

In a universe seven steps away, that person was Jack Zimmermann, and all Kent could feel was jealousy, anger, and a driving need to show this punk up.

Here, in this universe, that person was his Carrie-girl, and all Kent could feel was gratitude for somebody who could make her smile with so much easy warmth mere minutes after they’d met.

You see, Kent Virgil Parson had walked back into the diner where he left his sister only to discover that she’d gone missing. He was puzzled for a moment or two before he heard the patented Parson gasp-snort coming from the booth behind theirs.

“Carrie-girl, are you harassing strangers with pictures of my cats again?” he asked, leaning over to tug on the lock of hair escaping from the confines of her snapback. “You know Purrs and Kit don’t need more foot soldiers to conquer in their name.”

Carrie beamed up at him, shoulders loose and hands gesturing excitedly. “Kenny! Kenny, this is Eric—he’s a figure skater! Did you know he wants—”

“OhmyGodyou’reKentParson,” said Eric, the boy sitting across from Carrie, his eyes wide and amber brown in the sunlight streaming in through the window.

Carrie’s mouth snapped closed and her shoulders hunched in. Kent’s gaze went to her immediately, and he didn’t quite manage to hide a wince—they both knew how this was going to go. Kent would steal the show, and Carrie would fade into the background, the both of them buried under the weight of his NHL-star, face-of-a-franchise persona.

Because of this, he didn’t notice Eric’s glance bouncing between the two of them, observant as ever.

(In every universe, Eric Bittle can read a person like nobody’s business. Yes, even you, Kent Parson. _Especially_ you, in fact.)

“Yeah,” Kent said, forcing a laugh. “I’m—”

“The biggest secret Twihard fan,” Eric blurted out. “Carrie was just telling me how you used her to go to the midnight openings of all the movies out already. I was telling her that she ought to charge you for making her live through hours of that horrible, horrible dialogue. You’re a terrible brother.”

Kent’s and Carrie’s mouths dropped open in joint surprise. Kent recovered first. “Hey!” he said to her, playing along. “Way to blow my cover!”

Carrie was staring at Eric, who was staring back with a smile on his face as shy and as tentative as the one she first gave him, though Kent didn’t know that yet. Kent only knew that this was the first person Carrie’s age who’d met him while knowing who he was and _still_ managed to make the conversation all about Carrie instead.

Kent looked at that soft, sheepish smile, and he lost his breath, just a little.

“Let me try this again,” this Kent Parson said. “Hi, I’m Kenny. I am _not_ a secret Twihard fan—”

“What lies,” Carrie muttered, right on cue.

“—I am an openly out and proud one. Team Jacob, man.” He shot finger guns at Eric, and felt intensely satisfied when he managed to make him giggle in delighted surprise.

 

\---

 

Step six on repeat: Kent Virgil Parson hears Eric Richard Bittle laugh for the first time and thinks that he wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

In hindsight, this is the moment that doomed him, not that he would have it any other way.

 

\---

 

There are seven steps that lead to this universe branching off, but the differences after that are both uncountable and immeasurable, even as the things that stay the same continue to hold steadfast.

For example:

Carrie and Eric become Facebook friends and stay in touch sporadically, right up until they both get into DU and go to the same summer orientation session. Eric’s mother attends as his chaperone. Kent attends as Carrie’s. At the end of orientation, Eric and Carrie will have signed up for two classes together, planned to live in the same dorm, and figured out that they’re well on their way to becoming BFFs. Eric will also have developed an inappropriate, if very, very minor, crush on his friend’s attractive and infamous older brother, which is intensely inconvenient and breaks the very first rule every gay boy should follow:

Never fall for a straight boy.

 _Well_ , he tells himself, _at least you’re not really in love. It’s just a celebrity crush._

Kent, for his part, doesn’t think of Eric as much of anything beyond his kid sister’s friend, though he does revise his opinion slightly when he sees him skate for the first time.

“Nice moves, Eric,” he says, smirking.

Eric looks at him with wide brown eyes. “Thanks,” he says breathlessly.

 _Lord help me, I’m in so much trouble_ , Eric thinks.  

 

\---

 

Kent helps Carrie move into her and Eric’s new apartment at the beginning of sophomore year. He and Eric carry not one, but _two_ bed-frames up three flights of stairs, though thankfully the elevator starts working again in time for them to take up the mattresses.

At the end of this ordeal, Kent will be glistening with sweat and Eric will be praying to God that Kent keeps using the bottom of his tank top to wipe off his forehead, because this both reveals his glorious abs _and_ prevents him from noticing how blatantly Eric is ogling him.

Eric makes him lemonade, the first thing he ever whips up in the tiny, cozy kitchen he’ll call his own for the next three years.

“’S good,” Kent says, perfect eyebrows winging up in surprise.

Eric smiles, smug and pleased, and shrugs one shoulder artlessly. “Just wait’ll you try my pie,” he promises, feeling daring enough to wink.

Kent throws his head back and laughs. Eric stares at the line of his neck, the loose set of his broad shoulders, and is quietly enraptured.  

 

\---

 

After every game Kent has in Denver, he’ll take the time to drop by his sister’s place. Eric inevitably spends the hours before he arrives frantically running around the apartment and cleaning up his half of the mess, which, truth to be told, is a teeny tiny little bit _larger_ than Carrie’s half of it.

Carrie, bless her heart, _stress-cleans_. She’s a pre-med student who hates stoichiometry—her side of the apartment is spotless.

Eric, on the other hand, is a figure skater who went to the 2014 Olympics and barely missed out on getting silver by .17 points.

_.17 points._

It’s _infuriating_.

As such, Eric would like to point out that he had neither the time nor the inclination this year to do such trivial things as—as _laundry_. Or the dishes. Or keeping his desk in something resembling coherent organization. Or anything besides practicing at the rink, dragging himself to just enough of his classes not to fail, and stress-baking using whatever edible ingredients he could get his hands on.

He’s possibly regretting one or two of those choices now that Kent Parson’s arrival is imminent and he has nothing to wear.  

“Told you to do your laundry, at least,” Carrie says knowingly.

“You hush now, Caroline Grace Parson,” Eric shoots back, pointing an accusing finger in her general direction, too distracted with washing the dishes to be paying proper attention. He’s already got a load in the washer that’ll be done in 15 minutes. “Laundry is inessential, and you know it.”

She leans against the doorway, the lighting from the entryway turning the changeable eyes she and her brother inherited from their wonderful, lovely mother a very specific shade of grass-green. It’s the color that means she’s happiest, and normally Eric loves it when they’re that color, but normally she’s not on his back like a demon straight from hell for things he had _no_ control over. _No control_. “Maybe, but if you did yours regularly, you’d have more clothes to choose from now,” she says, smirking.

“Why you think I would need anything besides these jeans and this flannel is completely beyond me,” he mutters in reply.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I assumed you wanted to show up to the game wearing something other than three-day-old jeans and a flannel that Matt threw up on once.”  

Eric snaps his head up, torn between feeling appalled and delighted. On the one hand, he’ll get to see Kent Parson play beautiful, dirty hockey. On the other hand, he _doesn’t have anything to wear_. “You didn’t!” he says.

“ _I_ had nothing to do with it—Kenny’s the one that sent me four tickets for box seats. I was thinking you, me, Chowder, and Brea?”

“Brea doesn’t even follow hockey,” Eric says. He doesn’t mention how Chowder will probably show up in Sharks gear despite this being an Avalanche-Aces game. He’s learned not to tackle lost causes.

Carrie shrugs. “Yeah, but she at least gets hyped about sports. You know we can have her screaming ‘Take the shot!’ at the top of her lungs in about ten seconds flat.”

Eric hums thoughtfully. “Our eardrums won’t survive the night.”

“Nope,” Carrie says, grinning. “So you in?”

Eric closes his eyes, resigned. “Lord, just let me dry my skinny jeans.”

Carrie shoots him a wink. “Sure thing, honey,” she drawls in an _atrocious_ Southern accent.

“That was terrible,” Eric says, deadpan. Carrie just laughs.

 

\---

 

The Aces win the game. Kent Parson meets them afterward still in his game-day suit, his hair slightly damp and going every which-way, his eyes bright and vivid green. He’s so excited and pumped-up with adrenaline that he’s bouncing on his feet right where he stands, exactly like a five-year-old on a sugar rush.

It’s cute. He’s cute. Eric is unsubtly asphyxiating from the cuteness. He’s not going to survive the night.

Brea, Chowder, _and_ Carrie all shoot him knowing looks.

Maybe he needs new friends.

Kent strides over and gives Carrie a big hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around, ignoring her laughing protests. After he sets her back down, he turns to the rest of them, grinning widely when he sees Eric. “Eric! Nice job at Worlds! I mean, gold medal—that’s some bling!”

He completely glosses over Eric’s utter humiliation at the Olympics. Eric blushes violently, and Brea and Chowder basically bruise his sides with their ridiculously pointy elbows when they nudge him afterwards.

He really _does_ need new friends, ones who don’t tease him about his completely normal, completely insignificant, very, very mild celebrity-crush on his best friend’s older sibling. And especially ones who don’t nearly reveal said crush to the object of his affection every five minutes, sweet baby Jesus help him.

 _Good Lord, did no one ever teach them subtlety?_ he thinks despairingly.

They elbow him again not ten seconds later, and Eric resigns himself to poisoning them tomorrow to ensure this never occurs again.

 

\---

 

Throughout the whole night, Kent is effortlessly charming, commenting on Chowder’s shut-out in his last game, asking how Brea’s solo for the next concert is going. He makes it seem like he’s invested in each of their lives, like he genuinely wants to hear their answers.

It’s nice, but Eric can’t help but notice that when the topic circles around to Kent himself, he simply offers a few media-perfect sound bites and then skillfully deflects.

It makes Eric’s heart ache for him, just a little.

 

\---

 

Later that night, when it’s just past 1 a.m., Eric goes out to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

Kent is still awake, sitting on the couch and staring at the wall, the blanket Carrie left him lying neatly folded beside him. His expression is blank and empty, and Eric’s heart twists something awful in his chest.

He shuffles loudly down the little hallway on purpose, watching as Kent straightens up and automatically animates his face, sending a sly smirk Eric’s way once he’s in view. His phone’s already in his hand, and it looks like he was just scrolling through social media, and not sitting there alone in the dark.

“Hey, man,” Kent says, casual and unconcerned.

“Hi, honey,” Eric says softly, then immediately wants to bite his tongue off. He’s glad that it’s dark enough that Kent probably won’t see him blushing redder than a fire hydrant. “Um. I was just getting a glass of water. You want some, too?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just checking on my Twitter feed, like every other twenty-something night-owl,” Kent says offhandedly.

“Okay,” Eric says. “I’ll get you some pie instead.”

“Oh, that’s not—”

“It’s no trouble,” Eric says, and this is true. It’s cherry pie, Kent’s favorite. Eric baked it just for him, and he’s planning on sending the rest home with him. It’s no trouble at all.

Kent looks at him, his eyes slate-gray in the dim moonlight. The left corner of his mouth ticks up. “Is this one of the obscure pie rules Carrie was telling me about?”

“Yes,” Eric says, lying through his teeth. “If one is awake past midnight, one must consume one slice of pie for every hour that passes.”

“Is that so?” Kent asks, amused.

“It is so,” Eric declares firmly.   

 

\---

 

They sit on the couch, eating cherry pie. Kent groans with every bite he takes; Eric doesn’t think he’s aware he’s doing it. Eric catalogues each sound and commits them all to memory.

Kent waves a fork at him after a moment, smiling charmingly around a mouthful of pie. “So, Eric, you—”

“Can I see pictures of your cats?” Eric blurts out.

Kent blinks. “My...cats.”

“Yeah. Carrie talks about them all the time and I—well, I never had pets, but I always wanted—well, I’m really more of a dog person, but I promised her I’d—anyway, that was weird, you don’t have to show me.” Eric mentally tells himself to _please_ shut up, oh, my _God_.

Kent tilts his head, smiling a little. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Eric repeats.

“Yeah,” Kent says. He gestures for Eric to come closer and tilts the phone screen towards him. “So, okay, this is Kit attempting to flat-out murder a leaf—”    

 

\---

 

This. This is the moment that doomed Eric:

Kent Parson, his eyes the exact same color as the dark blue couch he’s sitting on, talking about his cats with far more genuine, adorable joy than he's exhibited at any other point this whole night.

 _Oh, shit_ , Eric realizes. _This isn’t a crush._

Kent Parson will look up and smile at him, and Eric Bittle will finish what he started in that diner two-and-a-half years ago and fall completely, irrevocably in love.

 

\---

 

Fast-forward a few years, and it’s Kent Parson’s third Cup Day. The Cup arrives at his house at 9 a.m., and Kent takes one look at the oil and caramel clinging to its interior surface and hits the first number in his favorites.

“What’s up, sugar?” Eric replies after a few rings.

“Hey,” Kent says, surprised. He meant to leave a message. “Is practice over?”

“Ehhh, not yet,” Eric hedges.

“Babe,” Kent says, amused, “are you hiding in the bathroom again?”

“Irina wants me to do another round of cardio,” Eric whines. “I’m gonna _die_ , sweetie.”

“It’s pre-season, you signed up for this,” Kent reminds him. “I bet Woo Jin’s already done with his round,” he continues cheekily, referring to Eric’s second-favorite rink-mate, known for being sunny, friendly, and obsessed with K-Pop dance groups off the ice, but very serious and intense while on it. (Still obsessed with K-Pop dance groups, though—just ask him about Lia Kim.)  

“Woo Jin is nineteen and has never had knee surgery,” Eric huffs. “He can suck it. _I’m_ twenty-four. That’s like being fifty in figure skating years, you know.”

“I know,” Kent says, easy as anything, pretending he’s never watched his boyfriend like a hawk, looking for signs of discomfort or pain or anything to even hint his body was giving him trouble. There’s a reason they have an ergonomic couch in the dining room, and it’s not actually so they can make out while the pies are in the oven—though, to be fair, that was an extremely beneficial (if unintended) side-effect.

Eric sighs like he sees right through him, but lets it slide. “Why’d you call, sugar? Did something go wrong with the Cup?”

“You could say that,” Kent says. “Swoops is retaliating against his and Maggie’s epic defeat at our hands—”

“You mean he’s still mad about trivia night? What else did he expect with pop culture as a category? Honestly, that boy,” Eric says.

“—I know, right? Anyway, he didn’t clean the damn Cup, and now I can’t put my celebration pie in it without it tasting like popcorn,” Kent explains.

“How rude,” Eric says.

“Right? Right? Like, what monster would even—you’re making fun of me,” Kent says, pouting.

Eric is totally making fun of him. “Sorry, sugar,” he says, not sounding sorry at all, “you just sound so annoyed. It’s cute.”

“It’s not cute! I’m having a _crisis_ here, Eric,” Kent grumbles in mock-seriousness.

“Oh, sure, like you can’t just clean it out. And I thought you were a pro at doing dishes,” Eric teases.

Kent gasps dramatically. “Not by choice! And don’t think you’re winning this latest round, pal—they’re _your_ dishes, so _you_ wash them!”

“Keep thinking that, honey,” Eric says, all warmth and smug confidence. Kent can just picture his smirk, the way he’d lean back, one leg bent and braced against the wall. “It’s _your_ house, and besides, you’re the one who’s always there—”

“ _Lies_.” Kent is gone most of the season, and Eric _knows_ it, the brat.

“—while _I_ am hardly even on the same continent some weeks,” his boyfriend says, ignoring him blithely. “Really, you should take pity on me, Kenny. How many international flights have I suffered through recently?”

“None this past month,” Kent points out.  

“The jet lag lingers,” Eric protests.

“Nice try, but if it lingered that badly, you shouldn’t have any energy for the ‘welcome home’ sex you like to surprise me with,” Kent answers.

“I thought you enjoyed that.” Kent pictures him coyly batting his lashes; damn it, he really should’ve gone for the video-chat. Then again, his argument might’ve been undermined by how much he’s blushing. You think he’d’ve gotten used to Eric being suggestive and flirty by now but, nope, it still gets to him.

Kent clears his throat. “I do, but that doesn’t mean you can just seduce me into doing the dishes, the laundry, _and_ the cleaning. What do I look like, some fifties’ housewife?”

“Mmm, the apron’d look good on you,” Eric says, dropping his voice another octave. “’Sides, I do the cooking, so it’s only fair that you… _return_ the favor.”

Kent licks his lips. “Sure, babe,” he replies huskily, listening to Eric make an interested noise, then follows it up with, “Soon as _you_ pick up your fair share.”

“We’ll see,” Eric says archly, like he’s sure he’s going to win this fight. Which isn’t unreasonable, considering that Kent’s folded the other 58 times he’s tried this, but he wants to at least argue the principle of the thing. Get Eric to acknowledge that he’s in the wrong, that using orgasms to get his way all the time is deeply unfair, that he really needs to do the damn dishes one of these days, etc., etc.

Kent abandons the argument for now, returning to his main point: “Anyway, before I attempt to clean out the Cup, is there anything I should know before I try?”

Eric hums thoughtfully. “Don’t think so; it’s regular old silver, right?”

“Technically, it’s a silver and nickel alloy,” Kent corrects.

“…you just googled that, didn’t you.”

“What? No, of course not!” Kent lies. “Every true hockey fan knows this fact.”

“I didn’t know that, and I’m a true hockey fan,” Eric points out. “I worship hockey. Get on my knees every night for a certain player, in fact.”

Kent rolls his eyes; while Eric loves the game, they both know _he’s_ the one who kneels most of the time. “Anyway, does _that_ make a difference?” Kent prods.

“I wouldn’t think so; just wash it out with warm water and dish soap. Use that special cloth I got for the silverware my mama gave us—”

“That cloth you never use?” Kent says dryly.

“ _You_ use it on my behalf, which is the same thing—”

“Is _not_ —”

“—is, _too_ ,” Eric retorts without missing a beat. “So, just use that cloth to clean it, dry it gently with the dish towel, and then stick the pie in it, and you’ll be good to go.”

Kent makes a considering noise. “You don’t think I should polish it or something?”

“Do you even know where I keep the polish?” Eric says, amused.

“It’s in one of the cupboards. Somewhere.” Eric starts snickering before he’s halfway through the first sentence. “Stop laughing at me!” Kent protests.

“I just can’t believe you want to go and polish the _Stanley Cup_ ,” Eric says between giggles. “Right before you want to eat out of it. You really think it’s a good idea to mix silver polish with my cherry pie?”

“…I had not considered that,” Kent admits.

“Oh, sugar,” Eric says, sighing affectionately. “What would you even do without me?”

“Probably curl up and die,” Kent says, only half-joking.

“Mm, and don’t you forget it, baby,” Eric replies, a smile in his voice just for Kent. “You take pictures for me now, you hear?”

“Will do,” he promises.

On the other end of the phone, there’s a clatter of a door opening, and a stern voice calling out Eric’s name. “Oh, shit, Irina’s here,” Eric mutters.

“In the men’s restroom? How shocking,” Kent teases.

“That woman goes where she pleases, and you damn well know it,” Eric says absent-mindedly. “I gotta go now, sugar. See you this afternoon, ’kay? Bye, I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Kent says, an echo as easy and constant as breathing. He waits until Eric ends the call before he puts his phone away, careful to put it in the pocket opposite the small, square ring box.

“Today,” he promises himself. “You’re asking him today.”

Purrs and Kit just shoot him matching looks of disbelief from their positions on either side of the Stanley Cup, and he sticks his tongue out in retaliation.

 

\---

 

[Image: The Stanley Cup sits on a wooden cutting board-style countertop, flanked by an elderly Maine Coone and a black American shorthair. The Cup is holding a cherry pie with the words, “Congrats, Vegas Aces!” baked into the crust. A slice has already been cut off, revealing the rich, red filling inside.]

 **therealkvp** @LasVegasAces @NHL Welcome to Take 3 of the Parson-style Cup Day! Say hi to my babies! (And check out that pie! Thanks as always to my favorite baker @omgpickandchews)  _#KitPurrson #PrinceofPurrs #CatsbeforeCup #LifeisPie #StanleyCup2019 #NHL_

 

\---

 

In this universe, Kent Parson also hires a bus and collects the Little Aces for a day with the Cup; there is lots of singing, lots of skating, lots of pizza, and lots of photos. The only difference is that Eric Bittle arrives at the rink a quarter before two and is immediately mobbed, Kent and the Cup abandoned in favor of the fastest skater to ever grace the T-Mobile Arena.

“Mr. Eric!” Michelle shouts. “Look! Look!” She pulls her no-hands jump-wall trick, balancing easily above the Stanley Cup.

“Would you look at that,” Eric says, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so impressive.” One of his hands is resting easily on the back of one of the smaller boys, helping him keep his balance, and he’s got a row of geared-up kids lined up behind him like a bunch of hyper-active ducklings, all of them ready to try and copy his skating techniques.

Not gonna lie, Kent’s kinda turning into a puddle of mush right here on center ice.

“I’m gonna marry him soon,” he says out loud.

“Only if you ever manage to ask him the dang question,” Ginger the PR intern chirps ruthlessly, snapping another photo.

Kent ignores her comment. “You’ll remember to—”

“Send you the photos so you can add them to your Eric-shrine. Yes, Cap, we _have_ done this sort of thing before,” she says, smirking at him over her shoulder before skating off.

On the bus ride to Circus Circus, Kent gives Eric the window seat and holds hands with him the whole way there, even if he has to wipe his palm on his jeans every five minutes because it gets all sweaty and gross. Totally worth it. Once they get there, Eric wins him a giant stuffed tiger at one of the shooting booths, his hands steady and his eyes cool as he hits bulls-eye after bulls-eye.

“We’re in public, mister,” Eric mutters when Kent pulls him in for a thank-you kiss on the cheek, half the kids cheering while the other half want Eric to show them how to shoot like that. “Behave.”

“I am,” Kent says, grinning wickedly, his fingers lingering against Eric’s wrist, right where he’s the most sensitive. Eric shoots him another look from beneath sooty brown lashes, unimpressed, but he curls his hand up and links their fingers together briefly before pulling away. Kent fights the urge to just reel him in and kiss that mock-frown off his face—he’s maybe being a _little_ handsier than usual, but sue him, it’s his Cup Day. And he gets to spend it with the love of his life, eating cotton candy and sharing milkshakes and watching his super-hot boyfriend referee the impromptu air hockey tournament they set up for the Little Aces.

God, he just loves watching Eric with the kids—it makes him think of white picket fences and minivans and school plays and the whole nine yards. Best of all, by the end of this night, he’ll have sealed the deal, gotten it in the bag, locked the whole thing down, put a ring on it, etc., etc. A lifetime of nights like this would be as close to guaranteed as possible.

After they drop the last kid off, they catch a cab back to his house, Eric pressed up against Kent’s side, the Cup leaning against his other one with Richards gamely in tow. Kent goes over his game-plan again: he’ll freshen up, put on his snazziest threads, and take his man out to dinner at Mastro’s. They’ll get tipsy on champagne, play footsie under the table, and order different desserts so they can swap bites—it’ll be great. It’ll be perfect.

And afterwards, at midnight exactly, he’ll hand the Cup to Eric, ask him to inspect his cleaning job one last time, and pop the question as soon as he finds the ring.

And then Eric will say yes, because—because of course he’ll say yes, Eric’s the one who’s always talked about how they’ll have two kids and no more than six cats, tops, how they’ll spend their nineties together in Hawaii, how Kent is front and center in every one of his plans for the future like it’s a foregone conclusion. He’ll probably start crying as soon as Kent gets on one knee. Hell, _Kent_ will probably start crying.

They’ll kiss over the Stanley Cup, and it’ll be everything he’s ever wanted.

 

\---

 

_“You and me Zimms, hoisting that Cup together. You’ll take the first lap, and I’ll be right after you, and we’ll kiss right there on the ice when you pass it off to me,” he promised Jack once, sure in his bones that what he was saying was everything he could ever want._

_He was eighteen years old. He was in love. He didn’t know he was promising the impossible, that their future was a train wreck waiting just around the corner._

_He knows better now._

 

\---

 

Things would’ve gone exactly to plan, except.

Well.

Except Eric apparently decided to throw him a surprise Cup Day party and invite all his closest friends and teammates.

“Surprise!” Swoops and Mags say, grinning at him from where they popped up behind the sofa. “Happy birthday!”

“My birthday's already passed, you assholes,” Kent says, fake smile on in full force.

“Yeah, but you weren’t here in Vegas for it, so we’re throwing our party for you now,” Swoops says. He’s got a glint in his eye like he knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he showed up to this shindig, like he _knew_ he was ruining all of Kent’s meticulous plans for the proposal. He wasn’t going to ask in fucking public, at least not for the first serious proposal—he might be planning on doing something over-the-top and romantic later, after Eric said yes privately, but that was _later_.

“You couldn’t have held off for a day?” Kent asks through gritted teeth.

“Hey, when Eric says show up, we show up,” Mags answers, her big, beautiful nose a little scrunched up from how widely she’s smiling, her curly black hair falling over Kent’s forearms in tight ringlets when she pulls him down for a hug. Kent glares daggers at her, too. He hid in the bushes at 5 a.m. for her, just so she could have nice pictures when Swoops proposed to her in the symbolic light of dawn. _5 a.m._ And _this_ is how she repays him? Not cool, man, not cool.

“Yo, Parsnip!” Gopher shouts from the other side of the room. Kent notes that he’s already helped himself to a slice of pie, though he’s left the huge birthday cake in the middle of the room alone. Probably because Eric would murder him otherwise, but it’s good to know he’s developed _some_ self-control. “Happy birthday, you dirty old man!”

“I’m not even thirty!” he shouts back.

“Last year, O captain, my captain!”

“Fuck you!”

“I would, but then Eric would poison me,” Gopher declares.

“Damn straight,” Eric says, and the room breaks into raucous laughter. Eric sidles up to Kent, practically beaming; he leans up and kisses him, sweet as anything. “You like your surprise, baby?” he asks, eyes hopeful and expectant.

Kent melts. “Yeah, of course,” he answers, slinging an arm around Eric’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. These are all people he trusts—well, except for Richards, but Richards is reading again and Kent’s pretty sure that as long as he doesn’t toss the Cup into a pool, he’ll stay chill. “Best Cup-Day-slash-belated-birthday-party ever.”

Eric’s grin gets even wider, and Kent resigns himself to putting the ring box back in his sock drawer for a little longer. It’s fine, the ring’ll keep—Kent’s not going anywhere, and neither is Eric.

 

\---

 

At some point during the night, Kent has the thought:

He wishes Zimms were here.

It’s an old ache, one he’s used to, the way some amputees get used to phantom sensations—their brains more used to feeling the pain of a limb that was always there than the feeling of absence that takes over now that it’s gone. Usually, he pushes it down, ignores it, lets it stay dead and buried in the past, but just as he thinks it, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Taking it out while he’s talking to one of his rookies, he sees it’s a message from an unknown number.

 

 **(514) 559-4667** _[10:23 p.m.]_  
It’s fine, Parse. I’ll be ok. Do what makes you happy.

 

Kent’s stomach lurches violently. That area code. That message. It’s gotta be from Jack.

 _He got my call_ , Kent thinks, his mind buzzing with a familiar mix of agitation, elation, and lingering anger and grief. He thinks anything to do with Jack will probably always taste a little like tears and bile in the back of his throat. Even that phone call he’d made, way back in early February, right after he bought the ring, he could taste it with every word he’d spoken.

“It’s Parse,” he'd said.

 _It’s Kenny_ , he thought, and cleared his throat. “Got your number through one of our Rimouski buds, so don’t be pissed at your dad.” _Wow, way to sound like a fucking moron, assuming you know anything about him anymore. And bringing up his daddy issues? Really?_ He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Um. I’m—well, I’m going to get married. Well, no, I mean, I’m—I’m gonna get engaged first.” _Obviously, Parse, Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, just get to the point already_ , he tells himself, exasperated.

He continues, “I’ll do it as soon as I ask my boyfriend—uh, Eric? You remember him, right? You, uh, you met him at the Olympics, I think? And at one of our games—anyway, yeah, I just.” Kent blew out a frustrated breath. He really should’ve written a script before he called, fucking hell.

“I wanted to let you know because—well, because we’ll be announcing it afterwards. We’re— _I’m_ going to come out. Probably during off-season,” he rambles. “And I didn’t want you to be caught off-guard. I’m not gonna say anything about—about you. So. Like. Don’t worry, I guess? I—I dunno, man, I just wanted to let you know just in case anybody brings up the old bullshit rumors to your face. Not that I—not that—it’s not like I _want_ them to, but just if they—yeah, whatever. Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say.”

An awkward beat where he had to bite his tongue to hold back the painfully true “I miss you” that was constantly stuck behind his teeth. Anytime he even saw a clip of Jack on the ice, looking fast and strong and fearless, those words just wanted to leak out of him, messy and dark like blood from a gut wound. “I hope you’re doing well. Good luck with the game. Bye.”

Kent had hung up and promised himself that that was the last time he’d ever call Jack Zimmermann.

He intends to keep that promise. He texts back a quick _thank you_ and deletes the thread from his phone, pointedly deleting any questions of why Jack chose _now_ of all times to answer him, too.

“Hey, Cap, you okay?” Pager asks, his dark skin pulled in tight with worry over sharp cheekbones.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says automatically, pasting on a smile and clapping his favorite rookie on the shoulder. “You want to hit Mags up, see if she’s putting her mad chemist skills to use and mixing up some bomb-ass margaritas?”

“I’m underage, Cap,” Pager says dutifully, the straightest-laced nineteen-year-old Kent has ever met.

“Yeah, I know,” Kent says, barking out a laugh. “I was planning on drinking yours, too.”

“Gotcha, Cap,” Pager says, smiling ruefully, and Kent grins wildly back.

Kent hits Maggie up and drinks just enough to get himself in the right frame of mind to extract Eric from a heated conversation with Gopher and Viney about the proper size of mini-pies. He waltzes him into the middle of the living room dance floor, arms wrapped around him as he serenades pronoun-swapped Hozier right into his ear.

“I just think about my baby—I’m so full of love I can barely eat,” he croons, sloppy and drunk and more happy than melancholy—happy because even if a part of him will always miss Zimms, he’s got something tangible and real and _reciprocated_ right here in his arms.

It’s all he ever asked for and everything he thought he’d never get, once upon a time.

“He gives me toothaches just from kissin’ me,” Eric sings back, and Kent tucks his face against Eric’s neck and thinks, _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , as hard as he possibly can.

 

\---      

 

(It’s 11:11 p.m., and at the same time Kent Parson in a universe seven steps over is wishing that he could make somebody sound the way Zimms sounds when Bitty talks to him, this Kent Parson thinks he’d give a whole damn lot for Zimms to be just as happy as he is right now with Eric in his arms.)

 

\---

 

“Love you so fucking much, baby,” Kent mutters at 3 a.m. as Eric peels him out of his clothes. There’s a brief moment of panic when he thinks about the ring, but wait, he stuck it in the sock drawer again. Eric never does the laundry, so he’s never going to fucking find it. It’s fine, he’s safe.

Eric laughs as Kent sucks another hickey onto his neck; Kent can feel the vibration of it against his lips. ’S nice. He loves it. He wants to feel it every day.

“Sure thing, sugar,” Eric says, and oh, he said that part out loud. Oh, well, it’s not like Eric doesn’t know he’s a complete and total sap. It’s not like Eric isn’t really fucking into it, thank God.

“Love you,” he says again, just to make sure Eric knows it.

“Love you, too, sugar,” Eric answers. He always says it back, no matter how many times Kent says it. It’s possibly Kent’s favorite thing about him, though these baby blue briefs are pretty high up on the list, too. They’d look even better on the bedroom floor.

“You hate it when I toss my clothes everywhere,” Eric answers, amused, when he voices this thought.

“No, I hate it when you toss ’em and don’t pick ’em _back up_ ,” Kent clarifies, slurring his words slightly. Well, probably more than slightly at this point, Kent’s not too aware of the fine details. “The actual tossing is fine in the—in the heat of the now.” Kent frowns. “Wait, that sounded wrong-ish. Heat of the—heat of the what?” He bites his lip, distracted.

“It’s ‘heat of the moment,’” Eric interjects, laughing again, and Kent nods and rolls on top of him with loose-limbed, drunken grace, sneaking his hands under the old, worn jersey of his that Eric loves to sleep in.

“That’s right,” Kent affirms. He has no actual idea if this is true or not, but it sounds good, and Eric’s saying it, so there’s a ninety percent chance it’s the word he was looking for.

“How drunk are you, baby?” Eric asks, and Kent hums thoughtfully.

“Prob’ly too drunk for sex,” he admits. Whiskey dick is a sad and unfortunate and all-too-real affliction of his, which is probably part of why he bottomed so much for Zimms back in the day. He’d let Eric fuck him now, too, no problem, but Eric refuses to have sex with him if he’s too drunk. It’s another one of his favorite things about him, though he tries not to mention it too often because Eric gets all sad and angry on his behalf when really, if you think about it, Kent just made some shitty recreational choices back in the day. Everybody has drunken hook-ups they regret, and Kent knew the score. It was a straightforward transaction—orgasms in exchange for hand-holding, sex in exchange for cuddling afterwards.

It’s fine. It’s in the past. He’s got Eric now, who holds his hand without him even having to ask, and lets him be the little spoon when they cuddle, and, before e moved in, always stayed until morning, even if they didn’t have sex first. Like, Kent has somebody willing to just _sleep_ with him without him having to fuck them. It’s the best, honestly. Eric’s the best.

Kent nuzzles Eric’s cheek, feeling bubbly and weightless and really fucking happy. “We could make out, though? And you can fuck me in the morning, if I’m not too hungover?” Kent offers now, hopeful and eager.

“That’s fine, honey,” Eric tells him, and Kent kisses him again, deep and wet and probably way too sloppily, but Eric arches up and kisses him back twice as hard, which means he can’t be doing too bad. Or maybe it just means that Eric loves him enough to endure even second-rate make-out sessions with him, which, again, is also a really great fucking thing.

“I love you so fucking much,” he says when they break apart for air. “I really, really want you to know that.”

Eric runs a hand through his messy hair, trying his best to straighten it out. “I know you do, sugar,” he says, his voice so fucking warm that it cracks open every hard and ugly thing lurking inside of Kent’s chest. It doesn’t get rid of them, no, but it makes them shut up for a bit; it quiets them long enough so he can have this moment. “And I’m so lucky you tell me that every day, and luckier still that you _show_ me. I love you, too, Kenny.”

Kent closes his eyes and kisses him and kisses him until he falls asleep.

 

\---

 

The next morning, Kent Parson wakes up in his bedroom because Eric forgot to close the curtains and the morning sunlight’s right in his fucking eyes. Thankfully, he’s only slightly hungover, so it doesn’t send him into spasms of cataclysmic pain. Honestly, this is better than he deserves, considering how drunk his ass was last night—but then again, his body has always been ridiculously fast at metabolizing everything. Makes it a fucking pain to keep weight on during the season, but it also means he can drink more than Chopper, who’s 6’6” and 250 lbs., and still wake up in the morning fresher than a fucking daisy. So this morning is pretty run of the mill except.

Except.

Kent wakes up in bed alone. He _never_ wakes up in bed alone. Eric loathes getting up early with the passion of a thousand fiery suns, a hatred burned into him by way too many 4 a.m. practice drills with Katya back in the day.

“What the fuck?” he mumbles, stretching a hand out in search of his boyfriend while slapping the other hand over his eyes to block out the sun. “Eric? Baby, how the fuck are you awake right now? Come back to bed, it’s Sunday morning. And close the damn curtains, would you? The light is killing me.”

There is no answer, and the sheets are stone-cold to the touch.

“What the fuck?” Kent says again, cracking open his eyes to narrow slits. How in the world has Eric been gone long enough for the sheets to go cold?

What he sees makes him sit straight up.

“What the actual living fuck!” he shouts, turning his head frantically and taking in his surroundings. His cats are fast asleep on the bean bag, but everything else is gone. Some fucking asshole has—has stolen his curtains, his bookshelves, his pictures, his chair—everything, what the hell, where the hell is everything? Why are the walls white? What the fuck happened to his room?

Where’s Eric?

“Babe?” he shouts, getting out of bed, still in nothing but his boxers. “Eric? Eric!”

He runs through the whole house, feeling like he’s caught up in some sort of nightmare. Gone are the clothes scattered everywhere, gone are the comfy couches, the clutter and the mess, the photos, the maps, the _colors_ —everything, every touch of warmth, every bit of bright detail that Eric brought into his life, that turned his house into a home—

It’s all just gone.

Eric’s just…gone.

“What the hell,” Kent says, sitting in his fucking ugly plain-ass dining room, the door to the kitchen closed because if he looks inside it one more time he’s going to cry. It’s his mom’s kitchen, the kitchen he used to have; it’s not the kitchen he had built for Eric, with Eric’s pies, and Eric’s measuring cups, and Eric’s godawful pile of dirty dishes, and Eric’s drawer of food _just for him_ —

Kent’s got both his cats in his lap, petting them like they’re the only thing keeping him from busting out into hysterical laughter and never stopping, which. Okay, yeah, they really are the only things keeping him together right now.

This is—this can’t be real. It just—it can’t.

“I’m—I’m going to call him,” Kent says to his cats. “He’s—this is just some big mistake. I’m calling him.” They yowl in agreement, kneading his thighs with their paws before launching off.

Kent goes back to the bedroom and tracks down his phone. Which is now a Galaxy S8? S9? Fuck, he hopes it’s not the model that explodes; he hasn’t owned an Android since Eric convinced him to switch over to matching iPhones.

It takes him a few tries to get it open as he walks back to the dining room (currently the least-upsetting room in the house, God, what the fuck), the fingerprint scanner being frustratingly difficult to get working. Finally, he just uses the passcode to unlock it—Eric’s birthday doesn’t work, but his old trusty 9007 does the trick. Once he’s in, he dials one of the only numbers he’s got memorized anymore.

“Hello?” an unfamiliar voice says, his Southern accent thick with annoyance. “Who is this?”

“Um, this is Kent,” he says carefully. “Is this Eric’s phone?”

“Oh, jeez, not another wrong number. Look, my name’s Martin. This isn’t Eric, or Louise, and it definitely ain’t Mallory and Sons’ Tow Truck Service, alright?” Martin the stranger says, definitely past annoyed and deep into disgruntled by now.

“Uh, right. Sorry about that. Bye,” Kent says, hanging up.

Right, so that’s not Eric’s phone number anymore. Alright. Okay. Right.

Using his phone, he then looks up Eric’s twitter, _@omgpickandchews_ , which is nonexistent. Eric’s Instagram, _eric_r_bittle_ , is also nonexistent. None of his photos with Kent or Carrie or anybody else he knows are anywhere.

According to Facebook, there are 17 different Eric Bittles, and none of them are Kent’s. According to Google, there are even more Eric Bittles, and none of them are Kent’s, either. Actually, according to Google, his Eric doesn’t even exist, because apparently the silver medalist in men’s singles figure skating from the 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics is Yuri Plisetsky, with Phichit Chulanont bumped up to bronze.  

“What the ever-living fuck,” Kent says.

He goes to his photos, and nothing. He goes to his text messages, and—

The first one is from Zimms.

Kent’s whole world stops for a second, then two, then a hundred, then more. Three whole minutes later, he’s still sitting in his uncomfortable fancy dining room chair, his thumb hovering over the text thread.

He breathes in. He breathes out. He opens the message.

It’s—Jesus. Kent scrolls through the logs, feeling incredibly disoriented. Jesus, they’re—they’re _talking_. They’re having civil conversations. They text every couple of days, just going over hockey shit, or trading chirps back and forth, or—God, Jack sends him Drunk History videos and Kent sends back pictures of his cats.

“Holy fuck, am I dating Jack Zimmermann?” he asks out loud, not sure whether to feel horrified or not. His cats give him judgmental glances in response, but honestly, they should just cut him a break, he’s stumbled into a fucking alternate universe here where he’s the boyfriend and/or fuck-buddy of his first love, and his almost-fiancé is nowhere to be found.

“Eric’s going to kill me,” Kent mutters. Eric, for some reason, _hates_ Zimms. Like, way more than a boyfriend should hate an ex. Kent’s not sure what gave him the impression, but he seems to believe that Zimms is responsible for how messed up he was back when they first met. Which. Okay, the reason was _kinda_ Zimms, but it wasn’t his _fault_. The fault was Kent’s—Kent and his hang-ups, Kent and his fuck-ups, Kent and his big, stupid mouth, and his dumb, stupid heart, and his shitty, ridiculous, absolutely awful inability to let things go.

Try telling that to Eric, though, and all you get is thinned lips and narrowed eyes and a scathing “Bless his heart,” which, _damn_ , was that some high-grade passive-aggression.

(There may also have been some sort of… _thing_ at the Olympics. Eric talked to Jack then, apparently? It didn’t go well, and Eric never talked about it with Kent, but Eric’s loathed Jack twice as much ever since.)

So, yeah. He’s in an alternate universe where he’s probably dating Jack Zimmermann. Go figure.

Kent takes a couple of deep breaths and instructs his nerves to calm the fuck down. Jack’s still up in Providence, at least. There’s no way he can cheat on Eric when he plans to hole up here in Vegas until he can figure out how to get back home.

Feeling slightly more settled, Kent turns his attention back to his phone. Analyzing the texts, they don’t _seem_ that incriminating. Nothing suggestive, nothing even remotely flirty, and there aren’t any nudes anywhere, which suggests they never send them. Because Kent knows himself, and in any universe he is a sucker for photographic evidence of his relationships, so maybe…maybe they’re not dating? Maybe they’re just friends?

Kent entertains the thought for a moment or two before tossing it out the window. Come fucking on, this is Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann they’re talking about. Jack. Laurent. Zimmermann. Kent’s never been able to exist in his orbit without crashing hard and burning. Something’s gotta be going on here.

Scrolling back down to the latest messages—sent just yesterday morning, what the fuck—also, other-him apparently doesn’t have any silver polish in the house, which just goes to show that he really should’ve found and dated Eric instead, because who asks fucking Jack Zimmermann for cleaning advice? The guy grew up in a 16-room mansion cared for by a cleaning service because neither of his parents knew anything about household chores, and he sure as hell didn’t pick up any skills in the time Kent knew him. Bad life choices, other-Kent, bad life choices—shoulda asked Swoops first, at _least_ —

Anyway. Back to the main point—looking at the latest messages, Kent sees something that catches his eye.

 

 **Zimms** _[9:50 a.m.]_  
And send a picture. Bitty wants to make sure you followed his directions.

 

Bitty. Bitty. It sounds an awful lot like—no. Couldn’t be. No way. No fucking way.

Kent lasts three seconds before logging back onto Facebook, finding Jack’s page, and scrolling through his pictures.

And there, front and center, is the person Kent’s been searching for this whole time:

Eric Richard Bittle.

He’s sitting next to Jack Laurent Zimmermann. They’re holding hands. Jack’s looking at Eric like he hung the moon, which Kent understands, does he _ever_ , but Eric—

Eric’s looking at Jack and smiling, soft and fond and just this side of smug, like he’s got him exactly where he wants him, like he special-ordered a French-Canadian hockey robot and Amazon delivered him a day early.

He’s looking at Jack the way he’s only ever looked at Kent.

Kent looks at Jack’s profile. Under relationship status, it says, “Dating Eric Bittle.”

Kent sits there. Kent blinks a few times. Kent starts laughing hysterically, and as he suspected, he doesn’t stop for what must be fifteen minutes straight.

“Fuck my life,” he mutters, remembering last night, remembering that random wish he’d made, remembering the fucking evil reality-warping Stanley Cup he’d been carting around all day.

He’d give a whole damn lot for Zimms to be just as happy as Kent is when he’s got Eric in his arms, and now?

Now _Zimms_ is the one who’s dating Eric?

“Ha-fucking-ha, very funny, universe,” Kent says, so bitter and pissed off that he’s circled right back over to being vindictively amused at everything, his thoughts sharp and bright the way they get when he’s ready to fuck it all up.

He calls Gopher. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “Today’s your Cup Day, yeah? Can I come on over? Nah, there’s no problem, there’s just something I want to check out.”

They want to mess with him? They want to screw up his life? Like hell is he going to stand around and just let it happen.

“Bring it on, Stanley Cup,” Kent Parson says, standing in his dining room in nothing but his American flag boxers. “There is no fucking way I am losing to you, you—you cosmic, life-ruining, silver-and-nickel abomination.”

Kit and Purrs share a sideways glance before shooting him identical looks of disapproval, but what do they know? He’s totally got this.

Just wait and see. He’s going home if it’s the last thing he ever does.

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thank you to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com), beta extraordinaire. Did you know she beta'd this monster of a chapter at 2 a.m.? And still caught about eight inconsistencies? Yes, yes she did. She's great, I tell you. 
> 
> Other notes: Yes, there was a _Yuri on Ice!!!_ reference in there. Yes, omgpickandchews refers to skating toe picks + chews. Yes, I have noticed the chapters getting longer with each progressive posting. No, I don't know why, either, haha. 
> 
> This chapter can also be found [on tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/166682165735/there-is-a-certain-slant-of-light-ch-3). Reblog or like, if you wish. ^^ 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented, left kudos, etc., etc. You make my day! I will see you all next Sunday (if the update on Monday doesn't send me to an early grave, lmao).


	4. i lost a world the other day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent puts his hands on either side of the Cup, staring at his own reflection intently. “So please,” he begs quietly, “please just send me back.”
> 
> Kent stands there and waits, expectant. The Stanley Cup sits on Gopher’s countertop, pretty as a picture, and does absolutely fucking nothing. 
> 
> “Well, then,” Kent says after ten minutes have passed and he hasn’t miraculously been returned home. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but if you’re forcing my hand, then I guess I have no choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are with our weekly update! Not too many warnings this chapter, just brief mentions of homophobia, though there aren’t any slurs used, and the Stanley Cup does get a _little_ roughed up. And, you know, there’s general hand-wavy magic shenanigans referenced. Many thanks as always to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for her read-through and encouragements. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/I_lost_a_World_%E2%80%94_the_other_day!). ^^
> 
> Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

_\---_

 

_I lost a World — the other day!_  
_Has Anybody found?_  
_You'll know it by the Row of Stars_  
_Around its forehead bound._

 

\---

 

Kent drives even more recklessly than usual and makes the half-hour trip in twenty minutes.

To be honest, Kent doesn’t know what to expect when he gets to Gopher’s place. Not even in an alternate-universe sort of way, just in a Gopher-is-fuckin’-weird type of thing. Kent is dead-certain that any iteration of their most trouble-prone D-man would be largely the same—there are only so many things that can go differently when your base personality consists of a two-year-old’s impulse control crossed with a twelve-year-old’s sense of humor. To be fair, Gopher’s antics never really cause much physical injury to himself or to anyone who doesn’t deserve it, though property damage is _absolutely_ always on the table (the Aces’ GM has made appropriate contingency plans to provide damage control for his worse escapades, though even they washed their hands of the Chinchilla Incident).

Case in point: for his first Cup Day, way back in his rookie year, Miguel Oskar Barrera Gfroerer somehow managed to hire a fighter plane and a pilot, and held the Stanley Cup in his lap while they broke the sound barrier. For his second Cup Day, he took it to Death Valley, California, the lowest point in the United States, and made the entire journey solely by hitch-hiking. Which wouldn’t be too noteworthy, considering the lack of distance, but he also did it wearing nothing but flip-flops and a pair of red speedos. This year, Kent had heard him entertain ideas ranging from swimming with sharks to “forgetting it” at the nuclear power plant where his aunt worked.

Thankfully, Gopher decided to chill and stay in Las Vegas, so Kent thinks he probably went with either the Elvis-impersonator party or the Chippendales’ photoshoot.  

Then he gets to the backyard pool at Gopher’s house, where Gopher has assembled the Stanley Cup, a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke, and a pack of Mentos like they’re the materials for a particularly ominous ritual. This impression isn’t helped by the fact that he’s methodically duct-taping the Coke bottle so it stands upright in the middle of the Cup. Richards, its ostensible guardian, is lying down in one of the floating loungers with his eyes closed and a set of earphones in, possibly listening to an audiobook, possibly napping, and definitely getting a nice tan either way. Pager is hunched over a picnic table and carefully drilling holes into a couple of the Mentos, because of course he is.

“Hey, Cap,” Pager says, smiling innocently when he catches sight of him. Jesus, maybe Kent really ought to consider taking Gopher off the billet-house list, if even _Pager’s_ getting roped into his shenanigans during off-season.

(Gopher’s usual opening defense: “Look, so long as I have never killed nor been killed by a rookie—”

“Holy shit, why is our bar for this so low?” is Swoops’ dependable and despairing rejoinder.

“Maybe because Hucky almost failed that criteria once?”

“Hey!”)

“Do I even want to know what you’re doing?” Kent says, not bothering to take off his sunglasses. The sun’s kinda kicking his ass right now, what with the hangover combined with a stress-headache from the entire universe-hopping thing.

“We’re turning the Stanley Cup into a volcano, Parsley, what the fuck else does it look like,” Gopher says matter-of-factly.

“Araceli suggested it,” Pager informs him, referring to Gopher’s seven-year-old niece and goddaughter, who lives in Las Cruces and is the only person in the world who can get him to do anything without questioning or complaining about it first.

“She wants a volcano, she gets a volcano,” Gopher states. “Motherfucking teachers at her school stuck to the weak-ass baking soda and vinegar version. I’m gonna show her what a _real_ explosion looks like.”

Pager murmurs to Kent, “I had to talk him out of using actual nitroglycerin.”

“Does he have that in the house?” Kent asks. Maybe he shouldn’t be too hasty to stop rookies from being billeted here, not if they were all as calming and rational an influence as Pager. Then he remembers that this isn’t even _his_ problem, considering this isn’t his actual life. This is other-Kent’s problem, though it was good to know Pager was on top of any situation in any universe. If Kent had any say over it, this kid would be getting the C after he retired.

“Yeah.” Pager shrugs, nonchalant. “You know Gopher.”

Kent does, unfortunately. Still, he volunteers to take the video for them; considering that he’s crashing Gopher’s Cup Day, it’s the least he can do.

“Okay, we’re good,” he says, shooting Gopher a thumbs-up. Pager hands over the Mentos when prompted, narrating for the benefit of the camera, “Okay, Celi, so now we’ll string them onto the cap and—”

Gopher dumps six of them directly into the open container.

“Or we’ll do that instead,” Pager says dryly. A second later, a geyser of Diet Coke erupts out of the Stanley Cup, turning it into a glorified soda fountain.

“Whooooo! Yeah, baby!” Gopher grins at the camera and gestures proudly at the mess he’s made. “See, mija? That’s how it’s _done._ We’re gonna try this when I come visit you and Abuelita, ’kay? I promise. Don’t listen to what your dad says, it’s not gonna hurt anybody. He’s just a worrywart.” Gopher rolls his eyes before smiling again. “Love you, Celita! I’ll see you soon.” He makes kissy faces at the camera until Kent shuts it off.

“Sometimes I worry about you, man,” Pager says, shaking his head.

Gopher squints, displeased. “Only sometimes? Damn, that’s harsh.”

“It’s really not,” Pager says.

Ignoring this, Gopher turns to Kent. “So what do you need, Parser?” he demands, sticking his hands on his hips.

“I need to borrow the Cup for a bit,” Kent says. He doesn’t explain why he needs it, though he sees Pager give him a questioning glance.

Gopher, predictably, doesn’t give a shit and just shrugs. “Sure, have at it.” He grabs the Cup off the picnic table and hands it over, foaming Coke bottle and all.

Kent takes it. “I’ll just be inside.”

“Awesome. Don’t do anything too weird, though, I’m going to use it later to try and summon demons.” Gopher’s face looks completely serious.

So does Kent’s when he replies, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, buddy. They might be more than you could handle.”

Before today he wouldn’t have said that, but who knows with this thing anymore? It’s obviously both powerful _and_ full of ~~malevolent~~ misguided intent. Maybe they should just get it exorcised or something, Kent doesn’t know.

Gopher’s mouth drops open. “I cannot believe this! In my own house, by my own captain, am I to be thus attacked and slandered and fucking _doubted_ , what the motherfu—”

“Whatever, man. All I’m saying is, it’s your funeral.” Kent shrugs and walks away, flipping Gopher off over his shoulder when the guy starts yelling a mixture of Spanish and German insults at his back. Nothing he hasn’t heard before (or shouted back, for that matter).

From behind him, he hears Pager sigh. “Like I said, you should stick to the séance.”

“Hell, no! We are doing the summoning!”

Kent rolls his eyes as he opens the sliding doors. Only Gopher. Looking down at the Cup in his arms, he says, “See? I could’ve let you be used in some crazy summoning ritual of dubious morality, but did I?” He ignores the fact that he stood there and let it get used as part of a science project instead. This thing _owes_ him.

He sets it on the table and continues talking to it. “Okay, Stanley, so we have a problem here. I know you’re supposed to grant wishes and things, and now that I’ve had the time to think about it, you probably heard me last night—or, well, _other_ you heard me last night—” He stops and looks at it. “—are you even in communication with the other iteration of yourself?”

The Stanley Cup doesn’t answer.

“Shit. Well, let’s just assume y’all have got each other’s number or something because—because you obviously did this to me. And other-me. And _I_ at least really want to go home. So, yeah. You heard me—I don’t even know how, and I really don’t want to know why, but you decided to grant my wish. Now, here’s the thing.” Kent takes a deep breath. “ _I didn’t fucking want you to._ ” 

Well, that’s kind of a lie, but Kent’s not going to let it get away with this, nuh-uh. “Look, if you were paying any kind of attention last night, which you definitely were, you life-ruining phallic symbol, you would’ve read my mind and known that I said I would give ‘a whole damn lot’ for Zimms to be happy. Decent interpretations of this would include: ‘A lot.’ ‘Many things.’ ‘A boat-load of stuff.’ ‘My right arm,’ maybe. I didn’t say I’d give _everything_ , and see, that’s what you’ve taken from me. Everything. Like—like Eric’s gone, okay? He’s—he’s dating _Zimms_ of all people, and yeah, he should be able to do whatever he wants, and be with whoever he wants, and if that’s not me—”

Kent’s voice cracks. Even just thinking of how happy Eric had looked next to Jack freaks him the fuck out. Like, is this Eric happier? Is he better off? Yeah, Jack’s Facebook page had been set to private, but everyone he was close to clearly knew he was dating Eric. That meant he was at least willing to risk being outed. Which meant he was fucking serious about this whole thing. How much better was he for Eric? How much more did he—

Kent presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Having a breakdown in Gopher’s kitchen is definitely not part of the plan, so he tells himself to pull it together. He clears his throat. “If that’s not me, I’d be fine,” he lies. “But just last night he was telling me how much he loved me, and how lucky he was to have me, and that’s not exactly break-up talk, you know? And he’s—he’s _out there_ , okay, he’s in love with me, and I’m in love with him, and I really, really have to get back to him, alright? I—I have _plans_. I’ve got this whole other life, and I love it, okay, I worked hard to build it, and _losing it isn’t anything I asked for_.”

Kent takes a deep breath and gestures helplessly. “Look, I get you were only probably trying to help or something. And I—I’m glad that there’s a world where Jack is happy, and Eric is happy, and they’re happy together, and I’m—apparently cool with that, I guess. I don’t even know, I haven’t creeped through my alternate-self’s life yet, okay? I had other things to worry about.” Namely driving over here as fast as he could without getting pulled over for speeding.

He glares at the Stanley Cup. “Look, buddy, long story short: I want _my_ world, okay, and this is going to sound shitty and horrible of me, but _fuck_ Jack Zimmermann if this is what it costs. Like, seriously, forget my wish entirely.” Kent runs a hand through his hair anxiously, trying to explain his thought process. “I mean, think of how messed up everything’s going to be. Eric’s going to notice, and he’s going to freak the fuck out, and I don’t want him to freak out. It’s pre-season, and he’s putting together programs, and—whatever. I don’t even know if you know anything about figure skating, but it’s an important time, alright? I shouldn’t be fucking around in an alternate universe while my boyfriend runs himself ragged trying to get me back. And I don’t even want to think of how I might screw up other-me’s life if I stay here too long.”

There was absolutely no way he could fake being friends with a Jack Zimmermann that was dating his boyfriend. Just—there was no way. He hopes other-him hasn’t messed up his own life that badly, either, but he got to wake up next to Eric, so fuck him, too, at this point. “Anyway, that’s the situation. If it comes down to Jack’s happiness or Eric’s, I’m picking Eric all the way, because for some strange, incomprehensible reason, _I_ make him happy. Okay? I know it sounds crazy, but I do.”

Kent puts his hands on either side of the Cup, staring at his own reflection intently. “So please,” he begs quietly, “please just send me back.”

Kent stands there and waits, expectant. The Stanley Cup sits on Gopher’s countertop, pretty as a picture, and does absolutely fucking nothing.     

“Well, then,” Kent says after ten minutes have passed and he hasn’t miraculously been returned home. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but if you’re forcing my hand, then I guess I have no choice.”

 

\---

 

“Hey, Cap, are you—what the fuck!” Pager yelps.

Kent doesn’t look up from where he’s trying to get Gopher’s multipurpose lighter to switch on. “Hey, Pager, kinda busy here,” he mutters. He’s already dumped a bunch of salt in the Cup, and he’s got a few eggs boiling on the stove to help him tarnish it, but a little singeing shouldn’t hurt, either, right? And there was that nice, chlorine-filled pool outside he could toss it into if all of the above didn’t work…

“Cap, no! Gopher! Gopher, help me—oh, forget this.”

“Pager, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve got a good rea—Pager, Pager, no! Stop! I have to do this, man! Stop!” Kent yells as his no-longer favorite rookie picks him up around the waist and hauls him back. “Put me down and let me finish, dude! That’s an order!” He flails helplessly for a bit, kicking his heels against Pager’s stupidly long legs. “Seriously, Page, I’m on a mission!”

Gopher walks into the room. “Yo, Pager, what’s the hold-up—” He stops, stares at the two of them, Kent dangling in Pager’s arms as the Stanley Cup sits dusted with salt and cooking oil, and eggs boil on his stove. Gopher says slowly, “Jeremiah Pagett, why are you treating our captain like the kitten he is?”

“He was trying to desecrate the Stanley Cup,” Pager explains.

“I see.” Gopher nods as if this makes perfect sense to him. “It done you wrong, man?” he asks, looking Kent directly in the eye.

“It done me _wrong_ ,” Kent agrees, nodding back.

Gopher turns to Pager. “Pager, my boy, we have to help him,” he says, completely earnest.

Kent gestures triumphantly, glad for the support. “Yes! See? Listen to Gopher!”

“Cap, do you even hear what you’re saying?” Pager says, exasperated. He doesn’t let go.

Kent would usually concede that yes, listening to Gopher is a Bad Idea, but today is a day for Bad Ideas, in his opinion. He repeats his statement that they ought to follow Gopher’s lead and tries to squirm out of Pager’s grip; it doesn’t work. Thankfully, Gopher comes over to assist him, and between the two of them, Kent manages to get free and grab the Cup.

“Go, man, go!” Gopher shouts, and Kent heads for the sliding doors in a daring bid for freedom—

—but is stopped by the untimely appearance of one William B. Richards, fresh from pool-side and apparently roused from his nap by the ensuing chaos.

“Mr. Gfroerer, you know you’re not allowed to—what is going _on?_ ” he shouts once he catches sight of Kent, trying to make off with the reason for his livelihood.

“Um,” Kent says. He pastes on his most charming smile. “I can explain.”

Richards isn’t swayed. “Mr. Parson, put the Cup down this instant!”

“I really can’t,” he says. “There’s a problem.”

“I would hope not,” Richards says, appalled.

“No, really, I need to—” _torture the Stanley Cup until it sends me home_ “—conduct experiments on its…its…” Kent blanks out.

“Its ability to float,” Gopher contributes helpfully.

Kent has never been so grateful in his life. “Yes! Floating! Very important! I’ve really gotta—”

“Oh, no,” Richards interrupts, going pale beneath his newly acquired tan. He looks Kent up and down, his frown getting deeper and deeper. “Oh, dear Mother of God. You’ve—” He cuts himself off, then takes a deep breath. “Mr. Parson, please hand the Cup back to Mr. Gfroerer. I think you and I need to have a quick chat. Outside.” He turns on his heel and leaves the room.

“Um. What the hell just happened?” Pager asks.

“Fuck if I know,” Gopher says, shrugging. He taps on Pager’s arm. “Hey, man, mind letting me go? My neck’s kinda cramping.”

“Oh! Sorry!”

Kent sets the Cup down on the nearest chair. “I’m just going to…see what this is all about,” he says. “Hold onto this for me?” he asks.

“Will do, Parsec,” Gopher says with a lazy salute.

“Good luck, Cap,” Pager says seriously. “I hope you work out your sudden hatred for the Cup. It would be nice to win it again with you, you know, and I don’t want it to hold a grudge against you.”

Kent snorts, pretending he isn’t touched down to his bones. This kid. What a sweetheart. “Sure thing, buddy,” he says.

Pager smiles tentatively, and Kent grins back before heading out the door in search of Richards.

It’s time to get some answers.

 

\---

 

As it turns out, this sort of thing has happened before.

“What the fuck do you mean it curses people?” Kent yells. He’s sitting inside Richards’ rental car, a four-door sedan with the tinted windows rolled up and the air conditioning on, some soft rock playing on the radio “in case anyone has ears on them.” Which. Kent was honestly not expecting the Keeper of the Cup to be this frickin’ paranoid, but maybe that’s justified when you spend most of your time carting around a quasi-conscious, reality-warping, curse-inflicting hunk of metal.

Jesus fucking Christ. He can’t believe he wanted to propose with that thing.

 _Really dodged a bullet there, huh?_ he thinks bitterly.

Richards glares at him. “I told you, it’s not a curse, it’s a _blessing_.”

“It’s a fucking curse!” Kent shouts.

“It is _not_ ,” Richards refutes, prim and judgmental as any finishing school teacher. Kent really wants to sock him in the face, but for the moment he’s the best chance he’s got at getting back to Eric, so he resists the urge. “It’s a blessing—a granting of a wish, which every player is aware of—”

“A Stanley Cup wish is supposed to be, like, winning it again! Breaking a record! Maybe never getting traded! Not—not—not whatever the fuck _this_ is!”

Richards squints at him speculatively. “For the record,” he says, “would you mind telling me exactly what the Cup _has_ done to you? I assume you’re not under any truth-compliance spells, and you’re not freezing everything you touch—”

“What the fuck,” Kent says, horrified. What the hell, the Stanley Cup can turn people into—into Elsa from _Frozen?_ Holy frick, they _really_ need to get it exorcised.

“—you don’t _appear_ to be able to read minds, I don’t get the sense that you’re stuck in a time loop, and I’m guessing you haven’t seen the future?”

“What the fuck,” Kent repeats. Okay, so it can turn people into psychics, too? _Jesus_.

“That’s a no,” Richards says. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “You haven’t—” He clears his throat. “You haven’t discovered the involuntary ability to turn into your team’s mascot whenever you get kissed, have you?”

Kent just stares.

“What? It happened to one of the Penguins once,” Richards says.

Kent narrows his eyes. “It was Bad Bob, wasn’t it?” he says, some of the weirder things Jack’s dad had said beginning to make sense.

“I never named any specific—yes, yes it was,” Richards relents.

Kent laughs because he can’t believe that that situation actually would’ve been _preferable_. The Aces’ mascot is Lucky the Leopard, and sure, Eric probably would’ve hated to have his boyfriend turn into a giant cat whenever they kissed, but at least he’d still _be_ there. He could’ve—he could’ve been sitting at home, Eric tossing him fish to eat while they tried to get this whole mess straightened out, Eric chirping him to hell and back about how he’d finally revealed his true nature, etc., etc.

Instead it’s this.

“I’m from an alternate universe,” Kent says before Richards can come up with other formerly-thought-to-be-impossible scenarios that make him unreasonably jealous over not having landed in one of _those_ instead, fucking hell. “I woke up this morning, and my whole life was different. My significant other is missing, I’m talking to somebody who normally treats me like I’m their mortal enemy, and—” _They’re dating each other._ Kent doesn’t say that last bit, just bites his tongue and hunkers down in his seat.

“Oh,” Richards says, his eyes going wide. “Oh, God. That’s—rare.”

“Rarer than turning things into popsicles?” Kent says sarcastically.

Richards scowls. “Whatever your impression may be, _all_ direct supernatural wishes effected by the Cup are actually rather rare.”

“Very rare, I’m sure,” Kent scoffs.

“They _are_. They tend only to happen to people who’ve won the Cup more than once, and only the people who were instrumental to the team winning play-offs. Only players are ever affected, and only players who…well, whom the Cup _loves_. The…the greats.”

Kent glares down at his feet. “Don’t fuck with me.” The greats? _Him?_ Yeah, he’s good, but he’s not one of the greats. He’s not gonna be a legend. He knew that when he was sixteen and saw Jack Zimmermann skate for the first time in person. Knew it again now that Jack’s been playing again for the Falcs, tearing it up on the ice, making A and winning play-offs his rookie year, breaking record after record, coming up against Kent at the awards and scoring the Ross, the Richards, the Conn Smythe, even the Lady Byng, you name it.

Hockey’s beloved firstborn—her ice-eyed prince—was back, and everybody knew it. The bastard replacement was no longer needed, and Kent expected they’d come for his borrowed crown any day now.

“I’m not,” Richards says quietly. “If anything else, you can at least be assured that you’ll almost certainly make it into the Hall of Fame. No one who’s been blessed by the Cup hasn’t made it in.”

“Great,” Kent says, barking another laugh. “So this thing loved me so much it wrecked my whole life, and I get the Hall of Fame as a consolation prize?” He didn’t want to be in the Hall of Fame—he wanted to be with _Eric_ , damn it.

“You listen to me, Kent Parson,” Richards says, quiet and fierce. “You are a three-time Stanley Cup champion. You became one of the youngest captains in history. You are one of the best players of your generation. You were, what, nineteen when you first won the Cup? And you’re twenty-nine now?”

Kent nods.

“Ten-year anniversary, then,” Richards says. “And on your third time, too. The Cup remembers things like that. It decided you were special, and it wanted you to be happy, so it brought you here. It thought that would help you somehow. I’m sorry you’re not where you should be right now, but it did its best to grant your wish and the wish of the Kent Parson from this universe. Switching back is going to be fairly simple—just find out what the you of this universe wanted, and help him achieve it. You’ll switch back when he does the same.”

“But he’s already got what I wished for here,” Kent protests.   

Richards looks at him like he was missing the point. “But does he have what _he_ wished for?”

“But what the fuck is that supposed to be?” Kent says, tugging at his hair in frustration.

Richards snorts. “He’s Kent Parson of the Las Vegas Aces. If anybody can figure him out, it’s you.”

That is…really, really not true. He has no flipping clue what this version of him wants, since he and this world’s Eric aren’t even Facebook friends. Also, his house is super ugly. Also, he talks to _Jack Zimmermann_.

How? Kent tried for years, and this asshole stumbles across the magic secret somehow? Jack didn’t even reply to his call for, like, six months straight, and then he texted him three sentences, and that was it.

That was it. _This_ Kent gets texts from Zimms every few days and is apparently fine with being single and Eric-less.

Honestly, you know what? Fuck other-Kent. Kent doesn’t want to know what he wants, because it’s bound to be incomprehensible.

Richards must be able to read the seething frustration off his face. Randomly, he asks, “Did you let the Little Aces have a day with the Cup yesterday?”

Kent blinks, not sure where he’s going with this. “Uh, yeah?”

“And did you take them out to Circus Circus and pay for all their tickets and their souvenirs afterward?”

“Of course?” It would be kind of a douche move to take them there and _not_ cover the costs.

“And did you personally have the bus drop them off at all their houses and apartments, and walk those kids to their front doors?”

“Well, duh,” Kent says. His mama raised him to have manners, you know, and Mama B did the same for Eric. Of course they dropped everybody off—all the kids got bags of homemade cookies, too.

Richards nods, satisfied. “Then you can’t be that different from your other self, because he did exactly the same thing.”

Kent frowns. “Huh.” He hadn’t thought of it that way.

Richards claps him on the shoulder. “Look, Mr. Parson, you’ve got until the season starts to fulfill your wish—”

“You mean I’m stuck here until _October?_ ” he yelps. Oh, fuck no. Nuh-uh. No way. Not happening. Not on his watch, mister. He isn’t spending the entirety of off-season _here._ He’s got _plans_.

“You’re stuck here until you fulfill the terms of the wish,” Richards says again without hesitation, like he’s done this a million times before even though he says he hasn’t. Kent voices this thought out loud.

“Switching universes has only happened twice,” Richards corrects him.

“To whom?” Kent asks suspiciously.

“One was Gordie Howe. The other—well, I’m not at liberty to say,” Richards demurs.

“It was Bad Bob, wasn’t it?” Kent accuses again. God, see if he ever won the Stanley Cup again, if this is what it does to a person. And more than once? Forget it.

Richards thins his lips. “I’m not at liberty to say,” he repeats, then switches the topic because it _totally was_. “In the meantime, you are only allowed to inform a maximum of five people about what’s occurred here—”

“Wait, only five?”

“—and they are of course forbidden from telling anybody else. We don’t want the Cup’s metaphysical abilities to become common knowledge—well, common knowledge beyond hockey superstition. I’m sure you can understand.”

He really can’t, but, okay, he’ll roll with it.

Richards continues, “I’ll send you a copy of our standard NDA, and inform the Hockey Hall of Fame’s lawyers to be prepared in event of a mishap.”

“What the hell,” Kent says. Jeez, the NHL really was prepared for anything, huh?

“Of course, you are welcome to call me or any other Keeper of the Cup if you are experiencing major difficulties in getting your preferred confidants to believe you, and we will provide support and, if necessary, proof of past experiences.”

“Wait, wait—you guys have proof? And you don’t bother to warn anybody first?” Kent asks, indignant.

Richards ignores him. “Here, take my business card.”

Kent takes the business card, but he’s totally judging. “Well,” he says, “I’d say this was a nice talk, but my second-favorite—well, my first-favorite rookie, now that Pager’s betrayed me, what the hell—anyway, I promised Chowder I’d try and lie less, so—”

Richards tilts his head questioningly. “Chowder?”

Kent blinks. “Uh, yeah? Chris Chow, our alternate goalie? Got us about three shut-outs this season, I really don’t know how you missed him.”

Now it’s Richards’ turn to blink. “Chris Chow plays for the Sharks,” he says slowly.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

 

\---

 

“Okay, what the fuck, who let him sign with the Sharks?” Kent yells. “I spent all of last year begging and bribing that man to sign with us, and he picks the Sharks? The _Sharks?_ Motherfucker, I let Eric make him pre-game cookies without shooting pucks at his crotch, and this is how he repays me? I don’t care if they’re his childhood team, they’re _our_ conference rivals! I don’t believe this! The fucking Sharks!”

Kent resists the urge to throw open the windows and dramatically shout his displeasure to the world below him, but it’s a near thing. He hasn’t even gotten started on the weird will-they-won’t-they dance Chowder and Carrie have been doing for as long as they’ve known each other. He’s pretty sure they dated for a bit there, or were at least friends with benefits, but now Carrie’s met this nice girl named Caitlin up in Boston, and yet somehow Chowder and her are still a thing? And Caitlin may or may not be involved? Kent doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know if he wants to know, exactly, but Eric knows and Kent trusts Carrie to spill the beans when she’s good and ready.

But that’s not the point. The point is that his second-favorite—actually, his not-favorite at all, what the ever-living _fuck_ —rookie has absconded to the Sharks and is personally responsible for dropping their games-won count down by six. _Six_.

Swoops and Mags look at him like he’s completely lost it, which he kinda has if he’s being honest. His whole life feels like a lie right now.

“So let me get this straight,” Swoops says. “You’re from an alternate universe where Chris Chow plays for the Aces?”

“Yes!” Kent shouts. “Among—among other things.”

“Other things like what?” Mags prods, circling an open hand in a get-on-with-it gesture.

Kent bites his lip to stop from laughing bitterly and possibly never stopping. “Things like—like I don’t even know. I thought everything was mostly the same except for this one huge thing, but then it turns out Chowder’s not even on the team? Apparently, he didn’t take the Cup surfing with him in the Pacific Ocean last week? What else has changed?” He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. “Like, is Viney still on the Aces?”

“Uh, yes,” Swoops says. The two of them proceed to run through the whole roster, and mostly nothing has changed, though one of their trainers has retired, and his accountant is getting married, which was nice.

After the team is taken care of, Kent takes a deep breath and asks about his family. “How about my mom? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, totally,” Swoops assures him. “Terrorized every scorekeeper during play-offs like always. She’s currently on a cruise with Judith and Margot, though, so she might not get your calls right now.”

“My phone’s dead at the moment, so it doesn’t even matter,” Kent says, something easing in his chest that he hadn’t even noticed was there until it was gone. “How about Carrie? Is she still going to med school in Boston?”

“Um, she’s going to med school, yes, but she’s doing it in the Bay Area,” Mags says.

“The Bay Area? What the hell, why is everyone I love abandoning me for California?” Kent whines, flopping down onto the couch to mash his face against the armrest. “And stop looking at me like that, I can feel you doing the telepathic-couple-glance thing,” he mumbles, not even bothering to lift his head.

“Dude, it’s not every day your best friend tells you he switched places with an alternate-universe version of himself,” Swoops says.

“To be honest, if you hadn’t been so freaked out over the Chris Chow thing, I don’t think I would’ve believed you,” Mags adds. “You’re pretty much identical to your other-self, you know.”

“Hey, Chris Chow is a menace,” Swoops says loyally. “If I was transported to a world where he was no longer on my side, I’d be freaked, too.”

Kent raises his hand for a fist-bump. “Thanks, dude.”

Swoops fist-bumps him back. “Anytime. Now are you finally going to fess up what’s got you so spooked? ’Cause I know it’s not really the Chow thing.”

Kent groans, turning onto his back. “You’re not going to believe me.”

Mags rolls her eyes. “Kent, honey, if we weren’t going to believe you, it would’ve been at the ‘I’m from an alternate universe’ thing, not whatever you’re thinking of right now.”

“I can’t believe we’re two of, like, five people in the whole world who know that the Stanley Cup can bestow mutant powers,” Swoops murmurs to her, as if Kent isn’t right there and can totally hear him.

“It’s five people that _Kent’s_ allowed to tell, babe,” Mags corrects. “More people know beyond that.”

“Oh. Right.” Swoops smiles sheepishly at her before poking Kent in the side. “Okay, man, time to spill.”

Kent mulls over it a little longer, eventually saying, “In my universe, you and Mags are no longer the reigning champs of team trivia nights—”

Swoops gasps. “Liar!”

“—because me and my boyfriend are.” Kent stares at the ceiling. Mags and Swoops stare at him. He can tell because he can feel their eyeballs trying to bore through his temple telepathically. They know he’s bi, but they also watched him crash and burn through every relationship he’s been in, regardless of his partner’s gender, not to mention the once-annual “Zimms-won’t-talk-to-me” meltdowns, so the skepticism is to be expected. Him, in a stable, happy relationship? Sometimes he doesn’t believe it, either.

After an awkward thirty seconds, Swoops declares, “You’re right. I don’t believe you—”

Kent smiles mirthlessly.

“—because there’s no way we’d lose at trivia night,” Mags finishes, and the two of them high-five like the dorks they are.

“You guys wish,” Kent says, suddenly grinning. Man, is he lucky to still be friends with them in this universe, however much he doesn’t deserve it.

“So?” Swoops says, nudging Kent's knee with his toes. “What’s he like, this boyfriend?”

Kent sighs, aware he sounds like a thirteen-year-old pining over his first crush but not particularly caring overmuch. “Eric’s great. He’s just—perfect, you know? Except he’s not. Except he _is_ , because he bakes, and he’s an Olympic figure skater, and he’s the current U.S. national champion, and he sings in the shower, and he loves Beyoncé, and he never does the damn dishes—”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Mags chirps, elbowing Swoops.

“They bond over that, actually,” Kent says absent-mindedly. “He doesn’t do the laundry, either, but it doesn’t matter because my cats love him, my mom loves him, my sister loves him, and _I_ love him, and he honestly gives the best head I’ve ever gotten, so I let him get away with everything.”

“Aww,” Mags says.

“Whoa, Parse, TMI,” Swoops says at the time, scrunching up his nose.

“Shut up, I’m having a heart-to-heart with Mags here,” Kent says. “Anyway, he’s Carrie’s best friend from college, so he’s five years younger, right? And I never really thought of him that way, but then he turned twenty and oh, my God, I was a goner. I swear I never meant to fall in love with him, but it just? Sort of happened? I don’t even know. I feel like one day he just smiled at me and that was it.”

“Wow, this is like some next-level Harlequin romance shit,” Swoops says.

Mags claps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t listen to him; _I_ think it’s great.”

“Thanks, Mags.”

“Hmm.” Swoops rubs his chin thoughtfully. “If this guy’s so great, why don’t you go and find him here? Maybe that’s what you wished for? You wouldn’t have admitted it, but Mags and I think you wanted to meet someone nice, settle down. Why not with this guy?”

Kent sighs again, because that is _totally_ his plan, except.

Except.

“There’s just one problem,” he says.

“What?” Swoops asks.

“Eric’s dating Jack Zimmermann.”

There’s a second of silence before Mags and Swoops start yelling:

“WAIT, _WHAT?_ ”

“Eric—as in _your_ boyfriend, Eric—is dating _Jack Zimmermann?_ ”

“YOU’RE DATING ERIC BITTLE?”

“Your boyfriend and your ex-boyfriend are dating?”

“BUT YOU HATE ERIC BITTLE!”

“Your Eric and Jack’s Eric are the same Eric?”

“LET ME REPEAT: YOU _HATE_ ERIC BITTLE!”

“Guys! Guys!” Kent yells sitting up and waving his hands. “One at a time please, Jesus Christ.” He rubs his forehead before pointing at Maggie. “Yes, my boyfriend and my ex are dating. No, I don’t know how it happened, either, except that the universe must fucking hate me.”

“This universe, at least,” Swoops mumbles. Kent can’t exactly disagree.

“And no, I don’t hate Eric Bittle. I love him. I’m going to marry him,” Kent stubbornly declares.

“You’re _marrying_ him?” Swoops bleats. Fucking _bleats_ , like a baby goat and everything.

“Yes, Swoops, once I propose,” Kent says in a sarcastic tone, even if he’s actually dead-serious about this. “Which I can’t do if I’m stuck here.”

Mags stares at him, incredulous. “Oh, my God. If I didn’t already believe that you were from an alternate universe, I’d believe you now.”

Kent squints at her. “Is it so weird that I want to get married? I mean, Eric’s kinda young, yeah, but I was thinking we could have a two- or three-year engagement or something, have the wedding after he retires. He’d be twenty-six, twenty-seven? It’s not so bad. I’m just tired of hiding it, you know? Like, fuck the closet, I’m busting out of it already.”

“You have a fiancé and you’re _still_ in the closet?” Swoops shouts.

“Almost-fiancé,” Kent corrects, then frowns. “Wait, are you saying I’m out?”

“Uh, yeah? First player in the NHL to do it. Out Magazine interviewed you and everything,” he says.

“What the hell?” Kent starts laughing again, because what is even going on with his life anymore? “If I’m not dating anybody, why am I out?” Like, Eric is the only reason he’s doing this now, otherwise he’d have stuck to his and Zimms’ game-plan and come out after he retired, and getting slammed against the boards for liking guys wasn’t a risk anymore.

“I’m pretty sure you just said, ‘fuck it,’ one day, and that was it,” Swoops says, shrugging.  

Kent wrinkles his nose. “Weird.”

“ _That’s_ weird? _You_ want to marry Eric Bittle! That’s the weirdest thing ever!” Swoops accuses.

“It’s not,” Kent replies, rolling his eyes. “Why do I hate him so much, huh?”

“Because he’s Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend!” Swoops yells, like this is the obvious conclusion to come to.

“And this is a problem because…?”

“Because you’re still in love with Jack Zimmermann!”

Okay, so it’s a good thing Kent hasn’t eaten yet, because he’s pretty sure he’d have hurled just then otherwise. “Wait, what?” he splutters. “No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!” Swoops argues.

“I’m not! Jesus, it’s been eleven years! Why would I still be carrying a torch for the guy?”

“Hell if I know, but you do! Are you saying you’re over him?” Swoops squints at him suspiciously, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Kent’s mouth drops open, because how is this even a _question._ “Jesus fuck, of course I’m saying that! I’m marrying someone else! How come other-me isn’t over him?” he demands.

“I don’t know, man, he’s just stuck on the guy, okay? What did _you_ do to get over him?”

Kent blinks. “Well, I started dating Eric.”

“Oy vey, this is a chicken-or-the-egg thing, isn’t it?” Mags says from her position on the sidelines. She shakes her head, pushing back her wavy hair. “Did you fall in love with Eric because you fell out of love with Jack, or did you fall out of love with Jack because you fell in love with Eric?”

“Uh, both I guess?” Kent scratches the bridge of his nose. He’s never examined it that closely, and he’s never particularly wanted to. He was with Eric now, was the important thing.

“Holy fuck, a Kent Parson who’s over Jack Zimmermann. I never thought I’d see the day,” Swoops says.

“Hey!”

“And one who’s in love with Eric Bittle,” Mags says faintly. They share another telepathic-couple glance.

“What?” Kent asks.

“You’re not going to like this,” Mags says.

“Just lay it on me,” Kent says, exasperated. He hasn’t liked this whole day—what’s one more thing in a world that’s gone totally sideways?

Mags licks her lips. “This morning, I would’ve bet good money that the thing you wanted most in the world, the thing you would’ve spent a Stanley Cup wish on, would’ve been being with Jack Zimmermann.”

“ _What the fuck_ ,” Kent yells, standing straight up and beginning to pace around the room, that’s how agitated he is. “That is _not_ happening!” Cheat on Eric? With _Jack?_ He’d stab himself first—he’s pretty certain it would hurt less in the long run and leave him less fucked-up to boot.

“Alright,” Mags says, calm in the face of his outburst. “Then I would’ve bet that you wanted to get over him.” She looks at him pointedly.

“So what?” he says, staring back at her. “I just help other-me get over Jack Zimmermann, and I get to go home?”

“In a nutshell,” she agrees.

“Okay,” Kent says, rubbing his hands together. “Okay. Yeah. Sure, I can totally help him with that. Easy.”

Swoops snorts so loudly it’s practically a honk. “Buddy, if you can pull that off, Gopher is going to owe me about a thousand dollars.” He shakes his head again. “A Kent Parson over Jack Zimmermann. Definitely weirder than the icy Midas touch. Definitely.”

Kent picks up a throw pillow and tosses it at his head, the jerk.

 

\---

 

The way that Kent Parson spends the next week of his life is neither emotionally productive nor particularly advisable, though it _is_ perfectly understandable:

He sticks to his off-season routine—working out for a few hours at the gym, eating a veritable small cow every day to put the weight back on, skating at a local rink on weekends when the trainers start glaring at him for spending too much time at the T-Mobile Arena. It’s fine. He’s fine. He tells himself there is absolutely no reason to worry, he’ll go home any second now.

(He can’t stand his home gym—it’s missing the barre and the wall of full-length mirrors he had installed for Eric so that he could do his ballet stretches in the morning. He can’t stand his kitchen—he eats out all the time because the dining room is too ugly and the counters are too clean. He can’t stand that the trainers don’t chirp him for sneaking in Eric in the mornings so he can practice on an arena-sized rink—he misses standing on the sidelines and watching Eric skate figure after figure, his hands graceful and his face peaceful and full of quiet contentment, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

It’s not fine. He’s not fine. He wants to be _home_ , damn it.)

He skypes with his sister, enjoying the fact that navigating separate time-zones is no longer necessary. He listens to her ramble about med school, about the volunteer service she does at a children’s hospital, about her boyfriend Ted, who honestly sounds like an idiot. Kent has to bite his tongue a hundred times to keep from telling her that she ought to dump the guy and find Caitlin Farmer from Santa Clara—that girl would put so many laugh lines by her eyes if she’d let her. Or hell, she should even head to San Jose and track down Chris Chow. Yes, the guy was a goalie and thus certifiably nuts, but he also made her smile more than anybody else Kent knew.

He doesn’t tell her about the switch. He’s her big brother. She shouldn’t have to worry about him, and she’s not going to.

He interprets “getting over Jack Zimmermann” as responding to all his texts with perfunctory one-word replies and the occasional picture of his cats, just often enough that Jack probably won’t suspect anything’s different. He’s always busy during off-season, right?

(He never noticed before—why would he notice now? Kent keeps his distance, keeps a careful eye out. He doesn’t trust this new Jack not to hurt him in all the same ways his own Jack did. He doesn’t trust himself not to repay the favor, returning pain with pain, blood with blood, bruise with heart-sore bruise.

He looks down at the phone in his hand, reads their old texts and wonders, _When did you start trusting me again with the parts of you that were soft and vulnerable?_

_When did **I** start trusting **you**? _

He doesn’t know how to do it anymore, doesn’t know how to respond with the easy, casual banter that comes so naturally to his counterpart, that came so naturally to _him_ once upon a time. All he can do is stand there and taste bile and tears at the back of his throat, think that he lied when he told Mags and Swoops that he got over Jack Zimmermann. It wasn’t healing, what he did—it was an excision, a severance, a cutting-of-ties more than a letting-go, and wishing him the best only once he’d managed to run as far as he could in the opposite direction.

A hand raised up from a safe distance to say goodbye, the figure of Jack so close to the horizon that Kent could barely see him—this is how he got over Jack Zimmermann. He still misses him every time he thinks about him, but doesn’t think he can ever risk closeness, nor what it brings—not again.)  

However, the most unproductive and frankly inadvisable thing that Kent Parson does all week is also the only thing that keeps him reasonably sane, aside from petting his cats:

He stalks Eric Richard Bittle online.

In any universe, Eric Bittle is a social media darling. In Kent’s universe, Eric is the face of U.S. Men’s Figure Skating, posting baking videos and clips of practice sessions, putting together montages of all the times he and his rinkmates slip on the ice—and off it, too. There, he started the trending hashtag _#PiesOnIce._  There, his fans send him tons of baking-themed skate gear, or figure-skating-themed baking items. There, Kent’s a VIP member of both of his fan clubs, and regularly complains over the fact that Eric refuses to have him installed as the president of either.

Here in this universe, apparently he has his own cooking show. Kent binge-watches all the episodes, and all the extras and outtakes, and all the interviews anywhere he’s done. He stalks his twitter feed. He reads every online article about him. He watches every single video on his YouTube channel.

These are the things he learns:

This Eric goes by “Bitty.” He quit figure skating when he was fifteen. He took up hockey instead. He went to Samwell University, where he was on a team with Jack Zimmermann. He graduated with a degree in American Studies. His cooking show is based in Boston, and more hockey players have appeared on it than in any place other than ESPN.   

He and Jack Zimmermann live together in Providence, Rhode Island.

Kent watches every video where they’re together with a pit in his stomach. They’re happy. They’re in love. They’re not shy about showing it.

Kent watches the latest one, where Jack has gotten flour all over his head and shoulders somehow, and Eric brushes it off with a warm, teasing smirk, chirping him all the while in that honey-thick drawl that means he just spent a week or so in Georgia.

Kent closes that tab and goes to one of Eric’s hockey videos, watches him skate quick and clean and graceful, watches him play with soft hands and sharp eyes, watches him lead his team with both effort and affection, on the ice and off it.

Kent wants to tell his boyfriend that he owes him a hundred bucks, ’cause he totally kills at hockey.

Kent can’t do that just yet, though, so he hits replay and starts watching Samwell vs. Yale all over again.

 

\---

 

A few more things he learns about this universe:

Here, Eric not only played hockey—he played hockey on Zimms’ line. He was the first out NCAA hockey captain.

Kent reads the old comments on some of the message boards, and often they got…bad. Kent’s not surprised, but he feels the urge to punch someone anyway.

Then he reads some of the comments now and sees red.

Here, Eric is Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend. Here, he’s the first man openly in a relationship with an NHL player. Here, Eric gets hate mail and rude messages and ugly, awful, homophobic comments on his videos. He ignores all of them with dignity and aplomb and is nothing but smiles, smiles, smiles for the camera—but Kent can tell when he’s faking it. Kent knows each and every one of his expressions, and his heart twists painfully in his chest to see the dull ache in Eric’s eyes.

This is the future that’s in store for his Eric. And Bitty might think all of that is worth it to be with Zimms, but it’s _Zimms._ It’s not Kent, and Kent Parson is no Jack Zimmermann, that’s for sure.

Kent can’t help but worry that maybe he wouldn’t be worth this for Eric.

 

\---

 

Things come to a head exactly one week and one day after he first woke up in this nightmare.

Jack Zimmermann calls him. Kent stares at his phone like it’s a crocodile waiting to snap his hand off, and lets it ring five times before picking it up.

“Hey, what’s up?” he says, doing his best to keep from stuttering, the way he does when he gets nervous or worked up sometimes. _Pretend you’re just talking to Swoops or Viney_ , he tells himself. _It’s fine. You’re fine. You two are friends here, remember?_

He ignores the little voice that screams its head off about how Zimms _stole_ his boyfriend and follows his first sentence up with, “Been a while since you called.”

(Wow, Kent. That didn’t sound angry or accusatory _at all_.)

“Sorry, Parse,” Jack says, his voice sheepish, and Kent is abruptly reminded of the days when Jack would forget his math homework and have to copy Kent’s. “I’ve been busy.”

He sounds genuinely apologetic about it, too, like he’s _sorry_ they haven’t been talking, like he thinks it’s his fault, rather than Kent doing his level best to ignore his problems and avoid having to deal with this mess he’s found himself in.

He sounds like…like he _missed_ Kent. Just a little bit. Just enough to call him and do something about it.

“Don’t worry, man, it’s cool,” Kent says on auto-pilot, his brain still trying to deal with this earth-shattering revelation.

“Right,” Jack says, then clears his throat awkwardly, another old habit.

Kent finds himself smiling to hear it, despite his reservations. “Just spit it out, Jack.”

“My birthday’s coming up,” Jack blurts, his words stumbling over themselves in his haste to say them.

Kent furrows his brows. “Uh, yeah. In a few weeks, right?” As if Kent could forget.

“Right. I was wondering if you wanted to come up for the party we’re throwing, maybe stay a week beforehand even, like we talked about,” Jack says. “Remember?”

“Yeah, of course,” Kent says, even though he totally doesn’t and literally _can’t_ remember something that never happened to him. The point is, alternate-Kent would’ve.

“Great,” Jack says, sounding excited. “We’ll get a room ready for you, and you can—”

“Wait, what?” Kent interrupts.

“Eh?” Jack says, confused. “You—you don’t want stay at our place?”

Kent can’t think of anything he’d like less, actually. “Uh, I mean that I can’t go at all,” he says. “I’m…really swamped then, sorry.”

“But you just said—oh,” Jack says, realizing what happened. “You meant you remembered, not that you could come.” He sounds disappointed.

Now it’s Kent’s turn to clear his throat. “Yeah,” he says roughly. “Sorry.”

“No, man, I understand,” Jack says. “It’s not a problem. Maybe next year, eh?”

“Sure, sure,” Kent says, itching to get away from this whole conversation, from the tug of Zimms in his orbit, pulling him closer and closer with the weight of their history, with the weight of his expectations, reaching out for a friend who’s not even here right now. “Bye, Jack, I gotta go.”

He hangs up the phone before he can hear Zimms say goodbye.

 

\---

 

He wakes up from a troubled, fitful nap to hear his phone ringing.

“The fuck?” he says, picking it up. The screen says the call is from someone saved as _Mr. Sounds Fake But Okay_ , whoever the hell that's supposed to be.

“’Lo?” he mumbles.

“You listen to me, Kent Parson,” says the voice he’s been missing this whole time. “Don’t think you can just get away with whatever stunt you think you’re pulling.”

 _Eric_ , he thinks, jolting all the way awake. “Huh?” he says, trying to think of what he did to make him mad.

“Don’t play innocent with  _me_ , mister,” Eric says, past annoyed and all the way into outraged. “You told Jack you couldn’t come to the party. Why?”

“Because I can’t?” Kent says. He thought that was obvious.

“That’s not what you said earlier this month,” Eric says, clearly fed-up with his bullshit, and seriously, fuck other-Kent and all these plans he’s been making without informing the unsuspecting, universe-hopping travelers who have to fill his shoes. “So what gives, Parson?”

“Um,” Kent says. He doesn’t say anything else, just waits to hear Eric’s voice talking to him again. God, it’s been a _whole week_ —he misses him so much, he could cry just from hearing the way Eric says his name, even angry like this.

“That’s what I thought,” Eric replies. He sighs. “Look, is this about staying with us? You don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know. We just thought it’d make it easier on you.”

“Uh, no. It’s just...been a bit hectic for me, lately. There’s been some…upheaval. In my life. It’s not—it’s not anything to do with you guys, promise.”

Suspicious silence on the other end. Then, grudgingly, Eric says, “Well, if you really can’t help it, I guess it’s fine.”

“Thanks,” Kent says faintly.

Eric hesitates, then says, “But are you _sure_ you can’t make it? Jack’s been looking forward to it, and I don’t want to disappoint him. I know it’d mean a lot to him if you were there.” He’s using his cajoling voice, the one that’s gotten Kent to cave anytime he’s heard it.

It works here, too.

“I’ll be there,” his mouth says.

 _Wait, what?_ his common sense says. _We can’t!_

 _But Eric is asking_ , his heart says.

 _You dumbass, this is going to be a disaster!_ his common sense ponts out.

 _But Eric_ , his heart stubbornly replies, which. Well. It’s the two-word argument guaranteed to shut down his common sense, and it wins the round handily, like always.

“Great!” Eric says brightly, the way he does when things have gone exactly to plan. Kent’s a sucker for that voice, too. “We’ll see you in about a week, then!”

“Sure,” Kent says, dazed. Eric hangs up, and he’s left to stare at the phone in his hand.

Did he just agree to spend a week watching his boyfriend be lovey-dovey with his ex? He did, didn’t he?

“Well, I’m fucked, then,” he says out loud. Purrs and Kit look up at him from their place at the foot of the couch and yowl in enthusiastic agreement.

Great. Just _great_.

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank gutsybitsies once again for her help and enthusiasm, and to everybody who commented on the last chapter. This one was a tough one to write, so all the encouragement helped. :D
> 
> Please do leave kudos or a comment, they're very much appreciated. Or reblog [here](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/166918916370/theres-a-certain-slant-of-light-ch-4). Or come scream with me about Kent Parson on [tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/). ;)


	5. bereaved of all, i went abroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The facts are these:
> 
> Kent Parson would very much like to go home now. If there is anyone out there who could help him achieve this, he’d be quite grateful if they would get in contact with him and _get him out of this mess, stat._
> 
> No, someone, anyone, really—please send help. Please. He’s close to begging at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to our weekly update! *looks at clock* Eh, it's still Sunday, so let's say I made it on time. :D
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of past homophobia, some mild panicking near the end of the chapter, but nothing that would be classified as a full-on panic attack. A character is just very emotionally stressed and reacts with tears. Let me know if you need me to tag for anything else!
> 
> The usual thank you goes to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for her beta and encouragements. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Bereaved_of_all,_I_went_abroad_%E2%80%94). ^^
> 
> Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

\---

 

_Bereaved of all, I went abroad —_  
_No less bereaved was I_  
_Upon a New Peninsula —_  
_The Grave preceded me —_

 

\---

 

The facts are these:

Kent Parson would very much like to go home now. If there is anyone out there who could help him achieve this, he’d be quite grateful if they would get in contact with him and _get him out of this mess, **stat**_.

No, someone, anyone, really—please send help. Please. He’s close to begging at this point.

He’s also fully aware that a solid—35%? 37%? Maybe low 40’s, he’s not really sure at this point—anyway, he fully acknowledges that a decent chunk of this is his own damn fault, but he refuses to take majority responsibility because he didn’t _ask_ to get sent to an alternate universe, okay? He didn’t ask to wake up this morning getting spooned by Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend. He didn’t ask to eat a home-cooked breakfast in a warm, sunny kitchen with said boyfriend, listening to him complain about his training, his programs, how he can’t decide which song to choose, which song should he choose, honey? It’s July, he can’t still be conflicted over his short program, though at least his free is done, thank the Lord, and his exhibition skate’s never been a problem, of course, but, really, should he go with Chopin or Tchaikovsky this year? Sugar? What do you think?

Kent swallows a heaping forkful of the best omelet he’s ever eaten and answers Chopin, of course, like he has a clue what he’s talking about. Jesus, he doesn’t know, why ask him? According to his sister, he isn’t even aware any music exists from before Queen, and while inaccurate it’s not entirely _untrue_. Hell, he goes with Chopin mostly because it’s easier to pronounce.

But Eric Bittle nods like he trusts his opinion on this and keeps right on talking, while also keeping an elbow on the counter so he can scroll through his phone one-handedly. This is because the other hand rests on top of Kent’s bare thigh, the tip of his pinky edging under Kent’s boxers and moving back and forth in time with his words, tracing electric patterns on Kent’s skin. Kent shovels more food into his mouth, doing his best to concentrate on Bitty’s words and not the fact that he’s totally going to pop a semi here at his kitchen counter.

Newsflash: it doesn’t fucking work.

The saddest thing is, it doesn’t even seem to be conscious on Bitty’s part? He doesn’t appear to be doing this to try and torture Kent? He’s just touching him, like he does it every day? He’s paying more attention to the photo he’s posting to his Insta than he is to what his hand is doing. Hell, he’s paying more attention to _Kit_ than he is to Kent right now, making kissy faces at her where she’s rubbing at his ankles, sneaking bits of food to her now and then, petting her with his _foot_ , even, like what?

Honestly, what the fuck? If Kent hadn’t already believed this was an alternate universe, he would’ve right then and there, because apparently Kit loves Bitty enough to accept foot massages from him. She doesn’t even do that with Kent half the time, seriously, this is so surreal. 

They finish breakfast. Kent rinses the dishes, Bitty plastered to his side and complaining the whole while when Kent makes him load the dishwasher.

Bitty pouts up at him. “But, sugar—”

“No buts,” Kent says firmly. He is immune to Bitty’s wiles. _Immune_ , he tells you.

“But I cooked breakfast for you,” Bitty says.

Kent snorts. “Bro, I washed a fuck-ton of baking goods for you just now. You can load the dishwasher.”

Bitty looks up at him, frowning a little. “‘Bro’?” he says, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Lord, you are spending too much time with Viney.”

Shit. Right. This isn’t Bitty—this is Eric, referred to exclusively as ‘babe,’ or ‘baby,’ or ‘gorgeous,’ or ‘sunshine.’ This is the love of other-Kent’s life, and he sure as hell wouldn’t call the love of his life ‘bro’ when they’re alone together.

(Which is a good thing, obviously, because it means that Zimms isn’t the love of his life. Kent calls him ‘bro’ and ‘buddy’ and ‘pal’ all the fucking time, and this should be taken as proof that he’s slowly but surely getting all the way over the guy. It’s progress, right? So sometimes the word feels like a knife slicing through his tongue on the way out; so what? He still says it, doesn’t he? And he _means_ it. They’re friends now, almost like brothers, and fuck if this isn’t what he wanted. It’s what he has now, and he’ll deck anybody who tries to take that from him, no hesitation at all.)

Kent clears his throat. “Sorry, baby,” he tries, and is unprepared for Bitty—no, for _Eric_ humming, all pleased, and leaning up to kiss him in response.

“Better,” he murmurs, lingering there. “God knows we already get enough of that from those reporters, trying to make it sound like I’m your little brother—did you know that Craig from ESPN asked Carrie when I was going to make an honest woman out of her? This was right after you won the Cup. I thought her eyes were going to fall out of her head, she rolled them so hard.” He laughs, shaking his head.

“They think you’re dating Carrie?” Kent asks, dumbfounded. He did sort of see how someone could get that impression from some of the pictures in the living room, but only if he squinted and completely ignored the love-struck look plastered on his alternate-self’s face in every single one of them. He was pretty sure other-him was even worse in person, most likely.

“I know, right? Like, _still?_ I mean, I know we’re in the closet, sugar, but isn’t it obvious I’ve only got eyes for you?” Eric raises a knowing brow at him, drying a plate in his hands before gesturing broadly with it. “And I wish they’d listen to Carrie when she says we’re not dating; it only confuses people. You don’t know how many idiots she broke up with because they were convinced we were secretly fucking. Mind you, half of them were the same ones who’d call me—well, you know. All sorts of awful things when they thought she couldn’t hear. And even some of her girlfriends thought she’d leave them for me! Honestly, I’m so glad she found Caitlin. That girl’s as good as gold.”

“Caitlin? But what about—” Kent stops himself. Last time he checked, Carrie was dating some asshole programmer working on an obscure app, Tad or Todd or something, but then again who knew anymore? This Carrie was apparently in Boston for the summer and already planning his wedding to her best friend.

“Chowder?” Eric sighs. “They’re still friends, of course, but I know there’re still feelings there, on both sides. We’ll see how it turns out. Carrie’s not going to let it turn into a soap opera. Well. Hopefully not—Chowder’s too sweet to suffer through murder quadrangles and people being replaced by their long-lost evil twin, but you know that.”   

Kent chokes. Thankfully, Eric doesn’t notice and just changes the subject, chattering about somebody named Inez working on her Tanos, then switching over to talk about the care packages he wants to put together for Pager and Gopher before they leave Vegas. Eric is really well-versed about the eating preferences of his whole team, actually, though it seems like he and Mitchell, their secondary nutritionist, are feuding about the amount of pies he bakes for everybody. Which totally makes sense if the fridge is anything to go by—Kent can’t believe he’s allowed to eat that much sugar on a regular basis. Apparently Chidera, their head honcho nutritionist, is fine with it, so Mitchell’s got to “suck it up and deal.” Kent suspects that Chidera may or may not have been bribed, or at least done in by a healthy dosage of Southern charm.

Increasingly, he finds himself unable to blame her.

As he enjoys the rarity of someone else carrying the conversational load for once, Kent makes a mental note to brush up on this life he’s been handed, because things are already way more complicated than he’d expected, and he’d expected it to be pretty fucking complicated.

This…takes a long time to achieve, because a lazy Sunday-in for his counterpart evidently means spending the whole day lounging on the various horizontal surfaces of his house. Which isn’t that different from how _he_ spends them, except he doesn’t have Eric parked on top of his half-naked body like he’s planning on setting up shop right there on Kent’s abs. The morning is spent watching the Food Network and HGTV, catching up on episodes Kent missed during the play-offs. Eric commentates each episode with the passion and expertise of a sportscaster, with Kent being a little shit and disagreeing with half his opinions just because he can. Eric doesn’t mind, just snipes back with snarky condescension. It reminds him of some of their Twitter exchanges, which is kinda weird, considering he’s 99.99% sure his resentment towards his world’s Bitty is wholeheartedly mutual. Eric, though, tempers his sarcasm with such obvious affection that Kent finds himself at a loss at how to respond. That might be his plan, actually, seeing how his smirk gets a little wider each time Kent is left spluttering after every, “You think that, sugar,” or each, “I can’t believe I fell in love with a man who thinks chintz is an acceptable choice for anything, let _alone_ living room curtains.”

 _You didn’t fall in love with me_ , he wants to say, but who would believe him? He can barely believe himself.

They move on to lunch, Eric setting him to chopping duty as he makes a quick stir-fry, mentioning how Chowder sent him the recipe, modified so it doesn’t have any peanuts, so Carrie can try it. Kent is really going to have to look this guy up, he gets mentioned so often.

They eat on the couch in the dining room, Eric’s feet tucked under Kent’s thighs, Purrs draped around his shoulders like a fancy gray stole. Eric smiles at him every few seconds; Kent’s cheeks are starting to ache a bit from how often he has to smile back.

After, Eric takes his hand and takes him to bed. It’s not anything he’s expecting. They just…nap. Eric curls around him in the still-unmade cotton sheets, the sunlight catching on the fine golden hairs of his muscled forearms. Kent drowses in and out of consciousness; when he wakes up, his head is in Eric’s lap, Eric’s fingers combing gently through his hair while Eric reads a YA novel, its colorful, stylized cover hovering just above Kent’s forehead.

“Hey, baby,” Eric says when he notices that he’s awake, placing a bookmark between the pages before setting it carefully to the side; Kent has the random thought that he’s gotta drive him nuts with his tendency to dog-ear his own books. That’s all Kent has time to think before Eric cups his face in both hands and leans down to meet his lips, kissing him with such sweet, tender familiarity that Kent feels the unexpected pinprick of tears at the backs of his eyes.    

It’s been a while since anybody’s taken their time with him like this, kissed him just for the sake of kissing him. Kent doesn’t know what to do with it, starts trembling a little from how badly he wants this to continue.

“There you are,” Eric murmurs, tugging on him so he sits up against the headboard, pliant and willing as Eric climbs into his lap and kisses him some more, running his hands up and down Kent’s arms, his sides, the planes of his chest.

“There you are,” Eric says again, his palm flat against Kent’s beating heart. “There’s my Kenny.”

And,  _God_ , that just about kills him. This all feels so good; Kent can’t help but arch into every touch, asking for more, more, more in the only way he knows how. Words feel a bit beyond him right now.

Then Eric shifts closer, resting his weight confidently on Kent’s thighs, and suddenly Kent can feel him, pressed half-hard against his belly. Kent freezes for a second, blinking his eyes open in confusion, but the kisses don’t escalate any further.

“Um,” Kent says, “d’you want me to…?”

He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, considering that he told him sex was off the table just this morning, and offering to give his alternate-self’s boyfriend a blowjob definitely violates whatever murky ethics probably govern the situation he’s found himself in. But fuck it, he hasn’t felt this good in possibly forever; he _owes_ it to Eric. He knows how this works, knows the kind of price tag that comes from feeling this attended to and cared for.

“Mmm, no, we’re good, sugar,” Eric says, scratching the nape of his neck gently. “I just wanna kiss you.”

Kent furrows his brows, puzzled. That’s gotta be a lie, right?

Eric catches sight of his expression. The look that crosses his face in response is—complicated. Kent doesn’t know what it means, especially when he smiles at him a little unevenly right after. “Don’t look like that, baby. I mean it, you know. Sure, I really, really wish you hadn’t made that bet, but this is nice, too, isn’t it? It’s been a while since we’ve done just this, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kent croaks. ‘Never’ counts as a while, right?

Eric kisses the tip of his nose, and Kent wants to curl up and hide. He feels—fuck, he doesn’t know what he feels. He hates this guy, doesn’t he? He takes a deep breath and examines his feelings a bit more, like his therapist taught him to, and—yep. There’s still resentment, and bitterness, and a dose of good old-fashioned jealousy, and—oh, shit.

 _This is what I’m up against_ , Kent realizes all of a sudden, and this, _this_ is why he wants to cry.

Kent Parson looks at Eric Bittle sitting in his lap, full of so much love Kent thinks he can feel it sloughing off of him and seeping into his pores, and he thinks, _This is what Zimms comes home to every day._

Oh. Kent never had a chance, did he?

Kent takes a shallow, ragged breath and buries his face in Eric’s neck, because shoving him off his lap and running into the desert howling at this revelation would be the douchiest of douche moves.

“Baby?” Eric asks, worried.

“Um. It’s nothing,” Kent lies. “I just. Um.” He laughs some, knowing it sounds bitter and brittle and unable to do a fucking thing about it. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sorry.”

But he does. He knows exactly what’s wrong with him, can point out every single gaping flaw that makes him so much worse, so much _uglier_ on the inside than Bitty could ever hope to be.

Eric just fucking proves his point by pulling him closer and running a soothing hand up and down his back. “That’s okay, baby. You’re allowed to have a bad day,” he says against Kent’s temple. “You don’t have to push yourself.”

“But you were probably looking forward to today,” Kent says, horribly aware that he’s doing a stellar job of completely screwing up other-Kent’s life right now, fuck. What the hell is wrong with him? One make-out session and suddenly he’s falling apart all over the place. Jesus, he’s better than this, come on. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to get it together.

“Oh, honey,” Eric says, and undoes all his hard work by resting his forehead against Kent’s and smiling so, so softly at him. He’s so close that Kent could count every one of his dark lashes, the same shade of brown as his eyes. “I _was_ looking forward to today. Still am, in fact. If you could possibly find it in you to sit here and let me cuddle you until the cats start throwing hissy-fits for their dinners, why, that’d make my whole day.”

Kent clears his throat, swallowing hard to try and push his heart back down into his chest from where it’s crawled up to lodge itself in his vocal chords. “I could do that,” he eventually gets out.

Eric kisses him, sweet as anything. “Yeah, sugar?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. And he does.

 

\---

 

(At the end of that first night, Kent Parson comes to the harrowing conclusion that he is quite possibly fucked. Metaphorically speaking, of course, though at this point the strain of saying no to being literally fucked only adds to his state of conflict and confusion.

So, yes. Someone please send help. He really, really needs it.)

 

\---

 

The next two or so weeks are possibly the most surreal of Kent Parson’s twenty-nine years of life.

For example, after doing some snooping, Kent finds out that Bitty is not only a figure skater, he’s the current reigning U.S. champ. He’s won Worlds three times and the Grand Prix twice. He’s got a grand total of four Olympic medals—two bronzes from Sochi 2014, for individual and team, and two silvers from Pyeongchang 2018, same categories. He’s grinning in one of his latest interviews when he jokes that he’s working his way up the podium to take gold in 2022, but his eyes are dead serious, and Kent knows ambition when he sees it. Those skaters better watch out, is all he’s saying.

He also finds out that Carrie and Bitty are, indeed, the best of friends, and have been since their freshman year at the University of Denver. Which is news to him, considering that _his_ Carrie went to undergrad at Mills College, and then decided to stick around and earn her master’s in microbiology, too. _This_ Carrie is in Boston getting her MD-PhD in Immunology, while also becoming involved in an increasingly complicated love triangle with her girlfriend Caitlin and her other best friend and possibly ex-boyfriend, Chowder.

That’s right, the mysterious Chowder. As in Chris Chow, Jack’s old Samwell teammate. As in Chris Chow, alternate goalie for the Sharks. As in Chris Chow, the man personally responsible for breaking Kent’s point-game streak this season. Except, guess what? He plays for the Aces now—got them three shut-outs, one during fucking _play-offs_ against the Schooners. He took the Cup surfing with him about a week before The Switch, as Kent’s taken to calling it in the privacy of his own head. Kent knows because his other-self retweeted the pics and tagged them with _#SoProud #MyOtherFaveRookie_.  

Everything else is largely the same, except for how thoroughly Bitty’s managed to wedge himself into every aspect of Kent’s life. How does he know this?

Everybody, but _everybody_ , has figured out that he’s trying to propose to the guy.

Consider a few choice scenes from his first few weeks, as he ran around and tried desperately to fill other-Kent’s shoes without letting anybody else know what had happened:

His mother calls him while she’s on her cruise. At first, they chat about normal things—how he’s doing, how Carrie’s doing, when he should fly in for his longer summer visit. His birthday never counts, he barely stays the weekend for that anyway, and, oh, apparently he doesn’t even spend it in Rochester every year anymore? From then on, the conversation takes a sharp turn into the bizarre. Kent tugs on his hair in confusion, like, what the actual fuck? His mother casually mentions how next year they should have his party at the Bittles’ again; they were always so nice, weren’t they? And the 4th of July was always such a big thing for them, it seemed a shame to keep Eric all to themselves—and, oh, by the way, has he managed to ask Eric to marry him yet?

“No?” his mother says, surprised at his answer. “Kenny, it’s July, will you just ask the boy already? No, I will not let this go, I am your mother and I raised you to be better than somebody who ‘keeps his options open.’”

“Mom, that’s not what I said,” Kent says, exasperated. “I said, ‘I’m waiting for the right opportunity.’ And, ‘We should really consider all the options before jumping into this.’”

His mom snorts. “What are you even saying, that boy has been your only option since you started dating him, and everybody knows it—”

Thankfully, Eric walks in just then, and Kent manages to extricate himself from the conversation by loudly declaring that his boyfriend just arrived, gee, he’s gotta go now.

Except then his mother demands to talk to him and Eric holds out his hand for the phone expectantly, and Kent has to stand there in his own living room and watch himself be mauled to death, an innocent bystander in his mother and his almost-fiancé’s shameless attempts to one-up each other on ‘Dumb Stuff Kenny’s Done’ stories.

“I hate this,” he tells Eric.

Eric just grins and tosses the phone back. “Like you’re not planning on throwing _me_ under the bus the next time _my_ mama calls—which should be soon, you know they’ll want us to come down after we visit your folks up north.”

“Sure, sure,” Kent says, pasting a smile on his face. He’ll be long gone by then, so it won’t even matter, right?

Right.

 

\--- 

 

Everyone on the team knows, too, and there’s a betting pool for when/where/how he pops the question. He doesn’t know what it says about him that it’s been six months since he started trying to propose and a good thirteen people are still in the running.

Swoops is out, and so are Viney and Pager, but Gopher and Chowder’s days haven’t come up yet, and neither has Mags’.

The message logs about it look something like this:

 

 **Chopper** _[10:54 a.m.]_  
You fucking bastard, Parser, YOU JUST COST ME TWO HUNDRED BUCKS.

 **Chopper** _[10:54 a.m.]_  
I BELIEVED YOU. CUP DAY YOU SAID. YOU HAD IT YOU SAID. JUST WATCH YOU YOU SAID.

 **Gopher** _[10:55 a.m.]_  
see, that right there was your first mistake, chops.

 **Viney** _[10:55 a.m.]_  
Shouldn’t have believed him, Chopper

 **Swoops** _[10:55 a.m.]_  
Shouldn’t have believed him, Chopper

 **Hucky** _[10:55 a.m.]_  
Not should have believe him, Chopper

 **Hucky** _[10:56 a.m.]_  
Haha, jinx you!

 **Chopper** _[10:56 a.m.]_  
Fuck you all. Also, jinxes only count if you say the same thing, Hucky.

 **Hucky** _[10:56 a.m.]_  
It spirit of the thing 

 **Hucky** _[10:57 a.m.]_  
Also you brought this on self. Why you think Parse ask when he say he ask? Not ready. He is chicken.

 **Swoops** _[11:00 a.m.]_  
Whoa, man, that’s harsh.

 **Swoops** _[11:00 a.m.]_  
I mean, it’s true. But harsh. 

 **Hucky** _[11:01 a.m.]_  
SWOOPS NO TALK I JINX YOU

 **Gopher** _[11:02 a.m.]_  
swoops swoops swoops viney viney viney

 **Hucky** _[11:03 a.m.]_  
GOPHER D: <

 **Pager** _[11:03 a.m.]_  
Wait, what did Gopher do now? Do I need to call Celi to talk him down?

 **Pager** _[11:04 a.m.]_  
Oh. Nvm. Proceed.

 **Parse** _[11:04 a.m.]_  
WOW FUCK ALL OF YOU

 **Viney** _[11:04 a.m.]_  
Oop, there he is.

 **Pager** _[11:04 a.m.]_  
They’re right though, Chopper, Cap can’t be trusted on a matter like this. 

 **Pager** _[11:05 a.m.]_  
You know he wants it to be perfect. It’s gonna take a while. 

 **Parse** _[11:05 a.m.]_  
ET TU, PAGER???

 **Chowder** _[11:06 a.m.]_  
It’s okay, Cap. I believe in you! *thumbs up emoji*

 **Viney** _[11:07 a.m.]_  
YOU’RE STILL IN THE RUNNING STFU

 **Swoops** _[11:07 a.m.]_  
YOU’RE STILL IN THE RUNNING HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT

 **Chopper** _[11:07 a.m.]_  
YOU’RE STILL IN THE RUNNING YOU LIAR

 **Hucky** _[11:07 a.m.]_  
Jinx! :D

 **Parse** _[11:08 a.m.]_  
I’m going back to sleep fuck you all

 **Viney** _[11:08 a.m.]_  
It’s 3 in the afternoon???

 **Gopher** _[11:08 a.m.]_  
time difference, my man, time difference.

 **Viney** _[11:09 a.m.]_  
Riiiiiiiiiiiight.

 **Chowder** _[11:09 a.m.]_  
Say hi to Eric for me. :)

 **Parse** _[11:10 a.m.]_  
*sunglasses emoji*

 

\---

 

Most of the Aces’ staff is in the know, too—Ginger the PR intern is holding pictures of Eric with the Little Aces on his Cup Day hostage, because evidently she put money down for early July and that backfired on her big-time, so she’s being vindictive in her retaliation. The rest of the PR team has set up a betting board in the break room to track who’s still a contender. A few of the managers ask him when Eric will be selling jam again, then follow it up with questions about his next proposal attempt, offering him advice he doesn’t plan on taking. Jerome, his favorite scout, mentions that he ought to propose at sunset, and gives him a recipe from his wife that she thought Eric’d like. Even Chidera asks him about Eric when she hands over his approved diet outline, and winks knowingly when he says they’re doing great.

“Tell him to come see me when he drops by tomorrow,” she says.

“He shouldn’t even be here—you know GM says outsiders can’t use the rink,” Mitchell interjects.

Chidera rolls her eyes in response. “Eric’s not an outsider. He comes all the time for family skate. Besides, you know George needs his brownie fix—he’ll be insufferable otherwise. Might as well let our star baker through.”

And when he goes to talk to George, he does indeed grumble about Kent bending the rules, and being a pain in the ass, and sneaking people in and swooning over them when he ought to be doing weights instead. But it’s obviously done good-naturedly, and like he not only expects it to happen but _looks forward_ to it, as evidenced when he tells Kent that the trainers want white chocolate and caramel brownies this week, if he could please pass that info along.

“Sure,” Kent says, a bit dazed. Does Eric bake for the whole damn team? _Weekly?_

Suddenly the question of how he could accumulate so many dirty dishes in a matter of days is answered. Of course it’s because Eric’s spoiling a whole bunch of people rotten. He seems the type to do that: take care of everybody around him, be friendly with everyone he meets, become a steady fixture in most aspects of his boyfriend’s life.

Kent’s not surprised.

(He’s surprised that he’s _not_ surprised. He…may be getting to know Bitty a lot better a lot quicker than expected. He just—he’s not sure what to do about it.)

 

\---

 

Kent soon finds out that the life-invading goes both ways. Three days in, he gets a text from Eric telling him that he’s going to take about an hour longer than planned, but to pick him up at 5:30 p.m., then they’d have dinner at the usual place.

Problem: Kent has no clue where to pick him up, or what ‘the usual place’ even is. Thankfully, other-Kent is also shit at navigating, so his car’s GPS system still has a ‘Top 5 Locations’ feature, the Top 5 Locations now being:

  1. Eric’s Apartment (He has his own _apartment?_ What the fuck does he even keep there anymore?)
  2. Eric’s Rink
  3. Little Slice of Heaven (…which honestly sounds like a stripper bar, but why would he have that saved?)
  4. T-Mobile Arena (Look, he _knows_ where it is, but traffic can get complicated sometimes. It’s best to have options.)
  5. Swoops&Mags’ Place



Considering that Eric left for practice that morning at 8 a.m., elbowing Kent in the process of crawling over him to get to the bathroom, Kent’s going to guess that Eric wants him to pick him up at his rink. It’s located in Henderson, a good forty-five minutes from Kent’s place.

Alright. Sure. He can handle that.

An hour and a half later, Kent has proved that he _cannot_ handle that, in fact. Mostly because people are assholes and don’t use their turn signals properly, and also because his GPS system is _shit_ and told him to take, like, eight wrong turns, damn it. He arrives twenty minutes late and nearly double parks, because fuck his life at this point, and fuck everybody who drives a minivan. They’re all possessed by demons, Kent just knows it.

He wanders into the clean, well-lit rink—notes how it’s both ruthlessly utilitarian and subtly upscale, a feel to it that clearly indicates both elegance and class, as well as a sense of competitiveness. It’s obviously a rink geared towards serious figure skaters, miles away from the crowded community rink Kent learned to skate at.

There’s the same sense of welcome, though, one extended specifically towards _him_ that Kent isn’t expecting. Teenagers towing skate gear pass by him with a friendly smile, parents picking up their kids nod at him and address him by name, and he even gets a few excited shouts of “Mr. Kent!” from some of the younger kids.

“Eric’s getting chewed out by Coach Irina,” an Asian girl with freckles and braces informs him.

“He was pushing himself on his jumps and fell,” a chubby red-headed kid adds.

Kent feels a rush of fear before a familiar-looking young woman strides over to them and says, “Madre de Dios, Henry, don’t say it like that!” She turns to him and pokes a finger into his chest. “Don’t panic, Kent, Eric’s fine. It wasn’t a bad fall.”

“But—”

“It wasn’t a bad fall,” she repeats, her dark brows drawn together in a fierce scowl, and, oh, Kent recognizes her from the pictures currently in his house, and also because his mother is a huge fan. This is Inez Herrera, Peruvian-American Grand Prix finalist and women’s singles up-and-comer, known for her jumps and her sharp choreography. Eric’s rinkmate. Right. “His knee’s fine. He’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“But—”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she says, staring him down.

Kent shuts his mouth and nods, and only then does she relax.

“He’ll be out in five,” Inez informs him. “Go wait on the sidelines, big shot,” she says, waving a hand at him in clear dismissal. She turns to the other kids and corrals them in the direction of the locker rooms, and Kent walks down the hallway she came from.

Sure enough, it leads to the rink, and Kent can see Eric through the glass panes, arms crossed and clearly pissed off as he faces down an older woman who’s standing in the exact same position, enunciating clipped sentences with a heavy Russian accent. There’s a guy sitting in the bleachers with one knee up, watching them, who waves Kent over when he catches sight of him.

“Hey, Kent,” he says.

“Hey, Woo Jin,” Kent says carefully, recognizing the bleached blond hair and the ear piercing.

“You hear about it?” the guy asks, tilting his chin towards Eric and Coach Irina.

“Yeah. Inez said not to worry about it.”

Woo Jin shrugs. “I wouldn’t. Eric knows what he’s doing.”

“Hmph.” Kent picks at his nails.

Woo Jin cracks a crooked smile. “He _does_. Though I know you’ll look for any excuse to fuss over him anyway.”

“Hey!”

At his shout of protest, Eric looks over, his icy expression thawing some when he notices Kent. He exchanges a few last terse sentences with his coach before they both nod and skate to the sidelines.

“Hey, sugar,” Eric says, putting on his skate guards.

“Kent.” Coach Irina acknowledges him with a single sharp tilt of her head. “You’re keeping this one home tomorrow.”

Eric’s mouth drops open. “But, Coach, I’ve gotta—”

“No arguments. You’re pushing yourself too hard. Take a break. You’re off the ice until next week.”

Eric presses his lips into an angry line but doesn’t say anything else. He just whirls around and stomps off. Kent says hasty goodbyes and follows after him, Woo Jin waving goodbye and Irina watching him go with stern gray eyes.

Kent waits outside the locker rooms as Eric changes; he eventually exits, a colorful blue roller bag in tow, a frown still on his face. They walk silently to the parking lot.

“Let me get that for you,” Kent says, grabbing the bag and ignoring Eric’s protests. He leads them to the car, putting the bag in the trunk. Eric is still standing by the car when he finishes, glaring in the direction of the rink.

“Um,” Kent says. “Dinner?”

Eric shakes his head slightly, coming back to himself. “Sure thing, hon,” he says, sighing. He reaches for the passenger’s side door.

Kent suddenly remembers he still doesn’t know where the usual place is. (This is worse than when he had to use his amateur-thief skills to figure out the combination to his personal pie drawer—7-28-12, which means jack-shit to Kent, but whatever. He got it open in the end.)

“Ah,” he says, hurrying over and grabbing the handle first. “I was thinking you could drive?”

Eric blinks, then smiles slowly, a little rueful. “I look that bad, sugar?”

“No, I just don’t want to drive,” Kent says honestly.

Eric’s smile turns wicked. “The soccer moms scare you again?”

“Hey! Those minivans are vicious!”

Eric laughs but heads over to the driver’s side, catching Kent’s tossed keys. He adjusts the seat and the mirrors, sticking his tongue out when Kent laughs at him. “You hush,” he mutters. “You’re three inches taller, I’ve got to adjust the lines of sight.”

“Three and a half,” Kent corrects.

“Sugar, please, you and I both know 5’10” is a sad, sad delusion on your part.”

Kent would continue arguing, but then Eric revs the engine and—

Okay. Wow. Okay.

So Eric is a good driver. Kent did not know that.

Eric is also a _fast_ driver, weaving seamlessly in and out of traffic with both speed and perfect politeness. He uses the turn signal each time, he never crowds too close to other cars, his driving is as smooth as a dream, and yet they still cruise through traffic like a hot knife through butter, Eric’s expression staying cool and focused the entire time.

Kent is…kinda turned on.

Then they get to their destination: Location #2, Little Slice of Heaven. Instead of a stripper bar, it’s a cute little restaurant on a crowded street, where there’s no parking anywhere except for this one spot on the curb, a narrow space jammed between two cars.

Kent starts to say, “I don’t think—”

Eric just puts his hand on the back of Kent’s headrest, looks over his shoulder, and slides the car right in, slick as anything. Kent would say it was the textbook example of parallel parking, except he doesn’t think anything that sexy would be allowed in driving textbooks.

“Um,” Kent says.

Eric puts the car in park and lets the engine idle, a small smirk on his face while he keeps his gaze straight ahead. He doesn’t glance at Kent at all when he takes his hand and places it on Kent’s thigh, sliding his fingers down so they can caress the inner seam of his jeans.

Kent swallows thickly, and spreads his legs a little wider in open invitation.

Eric takes it.

 

\---

 

They walk into the restaurant twenty minutes later.

Kent’s glad that his hair always looks like a mess because he’s sure he’d look completely debauched otherwise. Eric, on the other hand, looks the very picture of composed as he walks up to the counter and starts chatting with the server there, easy familiarity in every gesture. He’s obviously a frequent customer here, if the way the lady smiles back is any indication.

“Right this way, Mr. Parson,” a waiter tells him, materializing at his elbow. “We’ve got your usual table ready for you.”

“Thanks,” Kent says, still a little distracted by Eric’s smile as he follows the waiter to their seats.

When he sits down, the elderly black woman at the table behind him turns around and taps his shoulder. “Are you asking him tonight, honey?” she whispers, looking at him meaningfully over half-moon spectacles, her Southern accent thick in every word, and it takes him a second to get what she’s _really_ asking.

Once he does, though, he kind of wants to bash his head against the table. For God’s sake, even the regulars at their favorite restaurant know?

“Not tonight,” he mutters, silently cursing other-Kent and his inability to keep his mouth shut.

“Alright, sweetie. You just let us know when it’s time. Clarence and I can take videos for you. We thought it was a real shame about Valentine’s Day—double-booking you with that bachelorette party, what was Janice even thinking?” The woman shakes her head and turns back around. Her husband—the presumed Clarence—nods at him in solidarity.

Kent turns around and opens his menu, then tries not to melt into the floor in embarrassment when the waitress following Eric holds her hand up and points to her ring finger in obvious questioning pantomime.

Seriously. Fuck his life.

 

\---

 

Hardest conversation he has that week:

He sees his therapist: usual time, usual place, and Ben is still reassuringly the same—a quiet, older Indian gentleman with a British accent. He’s very smart, no-nonsense, and maybe a bit too obsessed with cricket, but he’s never made Kent feel stupid, and he’s never let him pull his bullshit, either, which he appreciates.

Kent feels acutely guilty lying to him, but can he really tell him that he’s from an alternate universe?

Probably, but he’d rather not risk alerting anybody to that fact unless he absolutely has to.

Still, Kent manages to talk about his feelings some anyway.

“Feels like I don’t deserve to be this happy,” he confesses. Can’t say the reason why, but he can admit it here.

Ben nods. “It’s a hard thing to get over,” he says. “The idea that happiness is something you have to work to have. That it’s something you have to earn, instead of something you learn to be.”

Kent swallows and looks at his feet. He doesn’t say that he thinks he could spend a hundred years here, learning how to be happy. Doesn’t say he’s starting to be afraid of leaving. He just says he’ll think on it. Which isn’t lying—he will. He just—can’t talk about this right now.

Ben lets him change the topic, and Kent starts telling him about his week, mentions how everybody and their mother, including his own, knows he’s a complete loser who still hasn’t figured out how to propose.

“Well,” Ben says, smiling, “the important thing is that you have found the one you want to marry. It took me forty-three marriage meetings to find my wife. When I met her, I knew she was the one.” Ben pauses. “Which made it very awkward that her sister was the one I was scheduled to meet at the time.”

Kent laughs despite himself.

“So, see? At least your proposal cannot possibly be more badly timed than mine,” Ben says.

It _does_ make him feel better, weirdly.

 

\---

 

Favorite conversation he has that week:

He and Carrie skype—or, rather, Carrie and Eric skype while he holds the computer so Eric can talk to her _and_ move around the kitchen as he bakes. Kent’s part of the furniture, mostly, and enjoys getting to see Carrie completely and totally unreserved, sharing gossip and complaints and daily random problems in a way that his own Carrie doesn’t. He gets it. He’s her big brother, not her best friend, and she’s not gonna tell him everything.

But Eric? As he overheard Eric telling somebody once, Carrie has seen him at his worst, helped him be his best, and thinks his average is worth sticking around for every day, and he absolutely believes the same for her. Eric, she tells everything to, and she doesn’t mind if Kent’s there to eavesdrop.

It’s one of his favorite things in this universe, to be honest, watching her laugh so much she almost falls off her chair when Eric does an impression of Swoops trying to figure out how to fold croissants.

Kent also gets to meet Caitlin, who’s very nice, very funny, and a whole lot better than Tad/Ted/Todd is. Kent is casually trying to get her number, or email, or _something_ so he can introduce her to his actual Carrie.

“Bro,” Carrie says, laughing. “You hitting on my girl?”

“What? No! I just want her phone number so she can send me ugly photos of you for blackmail,” Kent says, which is a pretty plausible lie, if he does say so himself.

Caitlin cackles loudly while Eric tells Carrie that she had this coming.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Carrie says. “Besides, you don’t even send me any ugly photos, Eric. It’s always sickeningly sweet couple selfies, or pictures of him fast asleep and you saying, ‘Help me, he’s TOO CUTE.’ Like, what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Lodge any complaints with Mom, she’s the one who’s responsible for his face.” Carrie shakes her head. “I have to rely on Chowder for the awkward snoring-on-a-plane pics. _Chowder_.”

“Those pictures are _adorable_ ,” Eric argues. “They are a _gift._ ”

“Whipped,” Carrie says, fond, and it makes Kent’s heart flip in his chest when Eric doesn’t deny it. 

 

\---

 

Strangest conversation he has that week:

Zimms calls him.

It happens before the other two, on the day right after The Switch. His phone rings at 6 a.m., and Kent claws himself to consciousness to answer. Eric is sound asleep beside him, but Kent’s not fully awake and doesn’t register that fact, doesn’t even remember that The Switch happened.

“’Lo?” he says roughly, wondering where the hell his blankets went. (Eric stole them, the way he always does, of course, but this Kent Parson hasn’t learned that about him yet.)

There’s silence on the other end. Then, “Hi, Parse.”

Kent would know that voice anywhere. Kent loves that voice. Kent is smiling sleepily when he replies, “Hey, Zimms, what’s up?”

(Kent doesn’t know this conversation is strange. He doesn’t know that his counterpart hasn’t spoken directly to Jack Zimmermann since the 2018 Olympic Games, and didn’t talk to him for four years before that, ever since this universe’s rendition of the Epikegster. He doesn’t know they haven’t had a civil conversation since the thirty-fourth day of that perfect, too-good-to-be-true summer.

It’s 6 a.m., and he’s woken up to his favorite voice. This Kent Parson only knows that he’s happy.)

Another long pause. Kent waits him out; he knows how this works. Then, “Nothing much. How are you?”

“Meh, you know. Tired. Sleepy. It’s, like, 6 a.m. here, ’m gonna head back to sleep right after this.” Kent yawns, stretches some. His hand hits a warm bundle—oh, right. His blankets. He tugs them closer.

“Oh, shit, I forgot the time difference,” Zimms says, guilty.

Kent laughs. “Typical Zimms.”

“Uh. I just. This was stupid, sorry, you can go back to sleep—”

“Just spit it out, Jack,” Kent says, warm and fond.

(Two thousand six hundred miles away in Providence, Rhode Island, this universe’s Jack Zimmermann grips his cell phone tight and reminds himself that Kenny’s always been friendly, that he’s always sounded like that, even towards complete strangers. It doesn’t mean anything now; it doesn’t mean anything other than Kent Parson being polite.

 _You can’t miss someone you pushed away_ , he tells himself sternly. _It’s not fair. He’s moved on. You’ve let go. You promised you wouldn’t be involved anymore, and he promised the same._

“Just spit it out, Jack,” Kent says, sounding exactly like he did at seventeen, and Jack Zimmermann closes his eyes and tells himself that that was a long, long time ago and neither of them are interested in going back.)

“Um. I just—did you get my text a few days ago? I never got an answer,” Jack says.

Kent frowns, because that doesn’t make any sense. He _always_ answers Zimms. He opens his mouth to reply when somebody in bed beside him mumbles, “Baby? Who’s’it? ’S it my mama callin’ again?” The voice sighs. “Told her not to do that.”

Kent’s eyes snap open. Right. Bitty. Bitty—no, _Eric_ is his boyfriend. Who happens to be in bed with him. Right.

“Gimme a second,” he says to Jack. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs to Eric. “It’s just one of the guys.”

“Better not be Gopher,” Eric mutters. “’s too damn early for this, y’hear?” He rolls over, stealing the blankets again, and settles back to sleep.

Kent creeps out of the bed and goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. “Sorry,” he says. “You still there?”

Jack clears his throat. “Yeah. Sorry to disturb your boyfriend.”

 _You mean **your** boyfriend_ , Kent thinks, running a tired hand over his face. Fuck, this is awkward. “It’s fine,” he says. “He went back to sleep. What was that about your text?”

“Uh. I just wanted to let you know that I was fine with it,” Jack says, clearly nervous.

Kent frowns. “Fine with what?”

“With—with you getting married.”

“Oh.”

More awkward silence. Kent really dreads breaking it, but he knows Zimms’ll never do it, so it falls to him. He clears his throat. “I’m glad,” he says, wonders why this universe’s Jack Zimmermann would have to assure him that he was fine with him getting married.

Could he be—?

No. No, in every universe Kent is the one still hung up on Zimms. He _knows_ this. _Don’t get your hopes up_ , he tells himself. _What would you even do about it?_

“Good,” Zimms says woodenly. Then, “So it’s not me, right?”

Kent’s heart thumps in his chest. “What’s not you?”

“The reason you—the reason you haven’t announced it yet. You’re not—you don’t have to be worried about me. Do what makes you happy,” Jack says.

Kent laughs. “No, it’s not you. Timing’s just been off. I haven’t even asked him yet,” he admits, picking at his nails.   

“Oh,” Zimms says, surprised. He pauses, obviously thinking, then eventually follows it up with, “But it’s been six months.”

Kent groans. “Oh, God, not you, too. I get enough of this from Carrie,” he complains. “I’m working on it, okay?”

“Oh,” Jack says. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, it is,” Kent seconds like a parrot. What the fuck. He resists the urge to smack himself in the face. He clearly needs some more sleep, and resolves to talk to Jack Zimmermann only when he has enough brain cells online for him to make sense. “Uh. Well, it’s been great talking to you, man, but I’m really beat. Gonna head back to bed, okay?” he says. “Talk to you soon.”

Jack pauses again. Then, “Okay.”

“Bye, Zimms.”

“Bye, Parse.”

 

\---

 

Jack Zimmermann looks at his phone and thinks, _That wasn’t so bad._

He thinks about, ‘What’s up, Zimms?’ and, ‘Talk to you soon.’ Thinks about how warm and open Parse had sounded, how easy he’d made the whole conversation seem, never talking over him or telling him what he ought to think, just giving him the space to say what he had to say.

He’d been so afraid of—well, of a repeat of every conversation they’d had since the draft.

That wasn’t the conversation they had.

Jack Zimmermann sits there and thinks about it long and hard.

 

\---

 

Three days later, when Parse texts him a funny gif of a moose barreling down a ski slope, accompanied by the words, _Made me think of you_ , Jack doesn’t delete it. Jack finds a video of a cat meowing like it was gonna die of starvation until its owner tossed a meatball at it, and sends it, saying, _Same_.

 

\---

 

The strangest conversation? Keeps happening, and the strangest thing about it is how Kent Parson doesn’t find it strange at all to talk to Jack Zimmermann like they don’t have years of grief and rage between them, like they’ve finally set their burdens down and offered each other forgiveness, accepted absolution, closed the door on the twisted thing they’d built and started something new instead.

This Kent Parson doesn’t know any better, but Jack Zimmermann does.

Jack Zimmermann takes shaky steps to meet Kent Parson in the middle, and though he won’t admit it to anyone, least of all himself, anytime he talks to or texts Kent Parson, he thinks, _Maybe._

 

\---

 

So, yeah. Life for Kent Parson is…weirdly good. And weirdly normal.

Not too much of his daily routine changes: he still wakes up, he still works out, he still eats half a butcher shop to put the weight back on, and he still skates every opportunity he can, despite the trainers yelling at him to go home already, damn it.

What does change:

Most mornings he wakes up tangled with Eric. They eat breakfast together before Eric heads to the rink on Mondays through Thursdays, and Kent goes jogging. Friday mornings, Eric stays and sleeps in. He’ll wander into the gym when Kent is working out, going over to the barre and doing his morning stretches. Kent watches as he sinks gracefully into perfect splits, as he touches his foot to the back of his head, as he stands and pulls his leg up, up, and up until his body is one long, elegant line.

Sometimes he’ll get Kent to help him, asking him to place a hand on his lower back and push him down a little further, yes, right there, perfect, honey. Or he’ll have him provide support, Eric’s ankle resting on his shoulder, Kent’s hands firm on his calf, Eric’s eyes holding his intently.

“Thanks, sugar,” Eric says, then drops to the floor for some more stretches. The two of them don’t mention his erection, obvious in his tight leggings, or Kent’s for that matter, less obvious in his basketball shorts but still pointedly there. Kent gets the feeling this would be true even if there wasn’t the enforced-abstinence thing going on. Kent’s a professional, and so is Eric.

(Not that he isn’t absolutely certain they’ve used the wall of mirrors for some kinky, dirty sex—just that that would probably happen _after_ their mutual work-outs, not during.)

Eric tags along with him to the Arena on Saturdays, bringing a literal picnic basket of goodies that he has Kent carry in and distribute to the various Aces’ staff. The trainers let Eric on the ice, and Kent watches as he skates figure after graceful figure, adding a few simple jumps here and there, but nothing too drastic since he doesn’t want to risk injury. It’s still beautiful, though—peaceful, like this is exactly what he was meant to do.

Kent leans on the wall and has the quiet thought that he could watch him do this forever.

The trainers yell at him to go home, right on cue, but instead of taking him to task for practicing too much, they’re complaining because he’s making heart-eyes at his boyfriend. Which is very untrue, Kent would have you know. He’s neither making heart-eyes, nor looking at his boyfriend.

( _Zimms’ boyfriend, Zimms’ boyfriend, Zimms’ boyfriend_ , he has to constantly remind himself, especially whenever Eric sneaks cold hands under his shirt, and pulls him in close to say, “There’s my man,” his head resting right against Kent’s heart.)

Meals are also about five times more delicious than they have any right to be. Eric doesn’t even cook all the time, since he’s got practices of his own, but he’s the darling favorite of about three-quarters of Vegas’ restaurants. The quality of Kent’s take-out has improved vastly as a result. Kent’s always had trouble bulking up thanks to both his crazy metabolism and his natural build, but Eric parks himself on his lap and rewards him with kisses after dinner if he finishes everything on his plate. Which. Well. Okay, he’ll admit that they’re a really great incentive.

The pies are great, too. He is no longer confused at the presence of a pad-locked drawer in his fridge, because Eric’s cherry crumble is fucking orgasmic and it’s a miracle he hasn’t been eaten out of house and home.

The dishes situation has improved, as well—Carrie’s advice really does work wonders, and as long as Kent’s firm about it and promises to do half the dishes with him, then Eric _will_ clean up after himself.

(Kent’s kind of given up the clothes situation for a lost cause, though, especially after seeing the inside of Eric’s nominal apartment, which is really more of a walk-in closet that imploded on itself. Nothing could be worse than that, so he resigns himself to tripping on scarves and finding gloves in every conceivable nook and cranny, including his cats’ climbing towers. Kent swears Kit even has her own collection of mittens, what the hell.)

 

\---

 

The weirdest thing? Is how easy it is to be this domestic.

Kent’s brushed his teeth side by side with Eric, avoiding getting elbowed as he continues to gesture and talk through a mouthful of toothpaste. Eric’s helped him pick an outfit for a day, matching shirts with snapbacks, sneakers with jackets. Kent’s helped him tape up his feet in the mornings, rubbed Bengay into his calves, given him massages after hard practices. Eric feeds his cats. Kent answers calls from Eric’s mother. They shop for groceries. They go on double dates with Mags and Swoops. They read in bed together. They kiss good morning and hello and goodbye and good night. They say, “I’m home,” and “I’m here,” and “I love you.”

(There are so many goddamn “I love you’s.” Kent tells himself that it’s all the practice he’s getting that makes it easier and easier to say, not—not any other reason. There is no other reason. There can’t possibly be any other reason.

It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s just three words.)

 

\---

 

Two and a half weeks after the switch, Eric waters the herb garden in the kitchen while Kent folds the laundry.

He finds the ring box in the sock drawer. It’s not even buried in the back or anything, it’s just right there out in the open, resting on top of his fuzzy green polka-dot socks.

Kent immediately knows that Eric has never seen it, has never even come _close_ to seeing it, because he never does the damn laundry and therefore would never find it.

Kent picks it up and opens it.

The ring is a simple gold band with narrow designs etched into the sides—it’s elegant. Classy. Kent thinks it fits Eric to a T. Taking it out of its setting, Kent holds it up to his face and reads the words engraved inside:

_erb + kvp = ∞_

“You fucking sap,” Kent says out loud. He closes the box with trembling hands and shoves it back in the drawer, slamming it shut. He sits down on the closet floor and runs his hands through his hair, telling himself to breathe.

“You have to get home,” he tells himself. “You just—you’ve gotta get home. You can’t do this. You _can’t._ ”  

Kent Parson stays there until his hands stop shaking and his lungs don’t burn when he breathes in.

It takes him a while.

 

\---

 

The facts are these:

Kent Parson might not actually want to go home. Part of Kent Parson might—just might—actually want to stay.

The rest of him is completely and utterly terrified by this.

 

\---

 

Things come to a head three weeks in.

(What? Did you honestly think Kent Parson could pull this off indefinitely? Please.)

Kent spends the day becoming increasingly nervous because he still doesn’t know how he got here, he hasn’t figured out how to get home, and he’s honestly no closer to getting the answer to either question.

Oh, and three weeks have gone by, so you know what _that_ means.

Eric was even more physically affectionate than usual this morning, and really gave a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘bedroom eyes.’ If Eric wouldn’t have been late going to the rink otherwise, Kent thinks he would’ve been ravished right then and there in the kitchen when he handed over Eric’s coffee. He  _knows_  Eric remembers that the terms of the bet have been fulfilled and Kent is once again free to be fucked into the mattress, and Eric is clearly looking forward to it.

“Did you do something to him?” Woo Jin asks Kent when he goes to pick him up that afternoon. “’Cause he’s been really cheerful all day.”

Inez snorts as she strides past them. “Cheerful doesn’t even begin to cover it. He was singing ‘Love on Top’ earlier.” She gives Kent a knowing look, which he ignores.

Hell, _Irina_ gives him a knowing look, which he also ignores.

Eric just grins when he sees him, fucking lights up like Kent hung the moon and the stars just for him. “Sugar!” he says, skating right over and kissing Kent full on the mouth.

“Um. Hey,” Kent says back. They’re not usually this physically affectionate in public, considering that they’re both still nominally closeted, but Eric doesn’t seem to care. Kent guesses this is what three weeks of abstinence does to the guy, so he closes his eyes and kisses him back.

Oh, God, he’s got to tell him. He can’t keep doing this anymore. He _can’t_.

Eric links their fingers together and plasters himself to Kent’s side as they walk to the car. “So I know you probably made plans, too,” Eric says, “but I promise you that mine are better, so we’re going with mine, okay?”

“Uh, sure?” Kent says, laughing nervously. “I figured we’d just do what you wanted tonight, though, so I didn’t really make any plans.” Mostly because he’s fairly certain that what Eric will want to do is beat him senseless with his rolling pin once he confesses everything, but that’s beside the point.

“Oh, honey, that’s so sweet of—” Eric gasps when they get to the car. “You got me flowers!” he says.

“Uh, yeah,” Kent says, scratching the back of his neck. He figured they would…maybe help the news go over better?

“Sunflowers, too.” Eric looks misty-eyed, which is honestly pretty weird because wouldn’t other-Kent be the type to get him flowers on the regular? Shouldn’t this be a normal occurrence for him? Maybe not, though, or maybe Eric always gets teary whenever alternate-Kent pulls the romance card. Kent doesn’t know.

“Well, they’re your favorite, yeah?” Kent says, shrugging. They only had about a million fake vases of them in the house. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Eric pulls him down for another toe-curling kiss. “Let’s go home,” he breathes.

Kent swallows. “Alright.”

Eric drives, so they make it in under an hour. To Kent’s surprise, Eric doesn’t try to ravish him right then and there in the garage, but instead pushes him towards the bedroom. “Go shower! Get dressed! Wear your Sunday best, we’re going out tonight!”

Wow, so there were actual dinner plans, okay. Kent revises his earlier strategy and resolves to tell Eric at the end of the evening. One more nice dinner together couldn’t hurt, right?

Kent spends the whole shower psyching himself up. He can do this. He can. Just be honest. He could prove he was from an alternate universe pretty easily once it was clear that he didn’t remember any details of their life together. And Eric would believe him; he’d want his own Kent back.

He didn’t need this Kent.

“Fuck,” he whispers, leaning his head against the wall, pretending the tears stinging his eyes were just from the shower spray.

When he gets out of the bathroom, Eric is already dressed, which is honestly a small miracle considering how long he usually takes to get ready.

“I picked out your outfit,” he says, gesturing to the bed. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Kent says, looking at the charcoal gray suit resting on the bed. It’s one of his Hugo Boss ones, the one whose slacks make his ass look even better than it normally does. Eric’s paired it with a dark gray button-down, a light green tie, and a Pioneers snapback. He’s laid out Kent’s favorite spades cufflinks and tucked a green handkerchief into the pocket of the suit, clearly meant to complement his own outfit, which is a sky-blue blazer-jacket thrown over a crisp white shirt and tan slacks.

He looks really, really fucking good. Eric smiles when he sees Kent staring.

“Be back in just a second, sugar,” Eric says, and Kent scrambles into his clothes when he ducks out, a flush high on his cheeks.

He’s standing in front of the mirror, fixing his tie, when Eric comes back. “There we go,” he says approvingly, walking towards Kent, his eyes hot and possessive as he rakes them over Kent’s body. “Let me get that for you, sugar,” he purrs, straightening Kent’s tie and smoothing his hands over Kent’s shoulders. Kent shudders beneath the touch, and Eric’s eyes go heavy-lidded.

“We should go?” Kent says.

Eric steps back, and he feels like he can finally catch his breath a little. “Lord, baby, don’t make it sound like a question,” he says, chuckling. “We really have to—I made reservations and everything. It’s not every day we have our anniversary, you know.”

_Anniversary?!_

Kent’s thoughts come to a screeching halt. Holy shit, he is in so much trouble. Oh, my God, he didn’t even know—he didn’t even get him anything, oh, my God. Why the fuck wasn’t it in his phone calendar?

Wait a minute. Kent remembers the date—July 28th—remembers the combination for the padlock—7-28-12—holy fucking shit, it’s their seventh anniversary. Lucky number seven, oh, God, that’s his number, that’s his _month_ , the other-him would _never_ forget, Eric is going to _know_ , he won’t even have a chance to explain—

In his panic, Kent barely even registers Eric saying, “Dang it, I forgot to pick out your socks. Wait here, sugar.”

He darts into the open closet as Kent watches, his mind a blank shrieking mess, and opens the sock drawer.

The sock drawer.

Wait a minute.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kent says, but it’s too late. Eric looks down and sees the ring box. He gasps.

“Oh, my God,” he says. “Oh, my God.” He picks it up. He opens it. “Oh, my God.”

He starts laughing. Then he starts crying. Then he starts laughing _and_ crying.

“Um,” Kent says, white as a sheet. “I can explain.” He really, really can’t. “I had a plan, see—” _And accidentally proposing isn’t part of it_ , he thinks hysterically.

Eric holds up a hand, cutting him off. “Sugar,” he says, his voice unsteady. He walks out of the closet, still holding the ring box with one hand. With the other, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out his own ring box. “Sugar, I was gonna do the exact same thing.”

Kent stares. “Wait, what.”

Eric gets to him and gets on one knee. “Kenny,” he says, his smile so fucking wide and happy, even as it trembles around a laughing sob. “Kenny, sugar, would you marry me?”

Kent does the only thing he can. He says, “I can’t.”

Eric blinks up at him. “Huh?” he says, clearly confused.

“I can’t,” Kent repeats.

“You…can’t?” Eric says. He gets up, takes hold of Kent’s hands. “Why not? Is this—is this—do you need more time? Is there—are you _unhappy?_ ”

“No,” Kent says, starting to cry a bit himself. “That’s not it—it’s not—you see, I’m not who you think I am.”

Eric’s eyes go wide. “Oh, God. Oh, God, Kenny, what’s wrong? Is it gambling? Drugs?”

“No!” Kent says, horrified. “That’s not—it’s not—”

“Are you having an affair?”

“No!”

“Then what—”

“I’m not your Kenny at all!” Kent shouts.

Eric stares at him, mouth hanging open. “Well,” he says, his voice going wobbly, “you don’t _have_ to be mine, sugar. I’m sorry if I ever gave you that impression. I just thought—” His voice cracks, and he puts his hand over his mouth.

Oh, God, Kent is fucking this up even worse than he thought was possible. “That’s not what I mean. I’m—I—”

And of course this is the moment his phone chooses to start ringing.

“Fuck,” Kent says, closing his eyes.

“You can go get it,” Eric whispers, his voice shaky. “It’s probably Carrie, calling about—well. I told her the plan.”

“I’d really rather not right now,” Kent says. Besides, it can’t be Carrie; that’s not her ringtone.

Eric’s mouth firms into an angry line. “Well, I’ll get it then.” He stomps over to the bedside table and picks up Kent’s phone.

He drops it a second later and whirls around.

“Why is Jack Zimmermann calling you?” he says, chest heaving, eyes filled with betrayal.

“Wha—that was Zimms?” Kent says, confused. Talk about awkward timing.

Oooh, wrong thing to say, if Eric’s expression is anything to go by. “ _Zimms?_ ” he shouts. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

“It’s what I’ve always called him?” Kent says. “I don’t know, he probably wants to talk about hockey or something—”

“WHY THE FUCK IS YOUR EX CALLING YOU?” Eric yells.

“Uh—”

Eric’s eyes widen. “Oh, my God,” he says, sitting down on the bed in shock. “Oh, God, you’re leaving me for Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent’s mouth drops open. “What the fuck—no!” he shouts. “No, that’s not it at all—Zimms and I are just friends!”

“ _Just friends_ , my ass!” Eric shouts back. “I’m not an idiot, Kent! You’ve been so—so _weird_ these past few days—you forgot my mama’s number, you didn’t know where the extra Bengay was, you never touched me anymore—” His face crumples. “God, Kenny, you could’ve just said you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I’m not your Kenny!” Kent shouts, frustrated beyond belief. “I’m from an alternate universe! I’m not dating Jack Zimmermann, _you_ are!”

Eric stares at him. Kent stares back.

“Wait, what?” Eric says, nonplussed.

Kent laughs bitterly. “Yeah, that’s not how I planned this going, either.” He rubs his hand over his face. “I’m from an alternate universe,” he repeats. “In my universe, you’re not a figure skater. You played hockey at Samwell instead, and you started dating Jack Zimmermann. That’s how we met. We’re not—we’re not even friends, just Twitter mutuals and reluctant acquaintances. But somehow, the day after my Cup Day, I woke up here—”

Kent stops, his eyes going wide. “My Cup Day,” he says. “The Stanley Cup—fuck, my _wish_ —”

Holy fuck, he knows what did this to him.

_He knows what did this to him._

Eric wrinkles his nose. “You think the Stanley Cup transported you to an alternate universe where I’m dating Jack Zimmermann?” he says.

“No, it transferred _me_ to an alternate universe where I’m dating _you_ —which, I know, it’s really fucking weird, believe me, I _know_ , but holy cow, that is not the point right now—the point is that the Stanley Cup did this, so we can—we can make it switch us back!” Kent grins at Eric, suddenly relieved. “You can—you can get your Kent back! I can go home!”

Eric blinks at him. “Kent Parson,” he says slowly. “ _You_ are my Kent.”  

Kent groans. “I’m not,” he says, ignoring how a part of him really wants to agree that he is.

“Don’t you—don’t you think I’d know?” Eric says. “If you weren’t? Honey, you are exactly the same—”

“You just said I’ve been acting weird!”

“Because you’ve obviously suffered a concussion or something!” Eric shouts back. “A concussion that’s—that’s made you delusional and—and—”

“You know it’s not me,” Kent says, staring him down. “You—you know something’s different, you know I’m not the same, you—” Now it’s his turn for his voice to crack. “I didn’t even know today was our anniversary,” he says.

“You—what?” Eric says in disbelief. “But you bought me flowers!”

Kent starts laughing, the sound of it more than a touch wild. “I bought you flowers as a kind of advance apology gift. I didn’t—I didn’t even know the combination for the padlock was the anniversary of when we started dating, okay—”

“Today isn’t the anniversary of when we started dating,” Eric says. “It’s the day we met.”

“Oh,” Kent says, surprised.

“You—we couldn’t have been dating for seven years, honey, you didn’t even think of me that way until I turned twenty,” Eric says. “You—you—” His breathing starts speeding up. “Oh, my God, you don’t remember.” He stares up at Kent, his brown eyes horrified and afraid. “You—you’re not my Kent.”

Kent bites his lip. “I’m not,” he admits. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

Eric bursts into tears; Kent sits down on the bed next to him and holds him.

“But—but _my_ Kenny—where—where—oh, God, he must be so scared,” Eric sobs. “He must—he must be so scared. I’ve gotta—I’ve gotta get him back. I—I need to find him, I—”

“I’ll help,” Kent promises. “I’ll get him back to you.”

Eric stares up at him, looking as scared and young as he did all those years ago, the night Kent first met him at a party in a frat house, in the dead of winter, in a universe seven steps away. “You will?” he asks.

“I will,” Kent promises, and hopes that he won’t break it.

 

\---

 

It’s not the hardest thing he’s done, making that promise.

But it’s close.

 

\--- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'd say sorry, but I'm not. *dodges thrown objects*
> 
> Other notes: Yes, this chapter has once again been longer than the previous one. Yes, this fic is now going to be 7 chapters instead of 6. Yes, the author has once again let this story take over her brain. Surprise! *cries*
> 
> Well, you know, at least I can count this chapter towards NaNo, right? Right.
> 
> As always, I'd like thank gutsybitsies for her help, encouragement, and general awesomeness. I'd also like to thank everyone who commented on the last chapter, I promise you _all_ made my day, and I will reply to you right after I post this chapter, haha.
> 
> Please do leave kudos or a comment, they're very much appreciated. (Seriously, tell me your favorite detail! I love it when people do that.) Or come scream with me about Kent Parson on [tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/), that's also very appreciated. Or, you know, scream _at_ me on Kent Parson's behalf, considering I'm a terrible human being who's torturing him, and by extension you. ;)


	6. i live with him—i see his face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, man,” Kent says, stopping a few feet away from him, wearing his careful, media-perfect smile like a shield.
> 
> Jack doesn’t seem to notice that anything’s wrong. He steps forward. Before Kent can do anything, can even think to back away, to stop him, he wraps his arms around him.
> 
> “Hi, Parse,” Zimms says, right into his ear. “It’s good to see you.”
> 
> _Oh, God,_ Kent thinks. _I’m not going to survive this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the chapter updates keep coming later and later on a Sunday evening, but! This chapter is also, like, ~~12K words~~ , so you'll forgive me, yes? :D (ETA: IT'S ACTUALLY _14K???_ WTF, SELF, _WTF_ )
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mentions of blood (skip the second to last section if you need to, which starts, "They go back to the hotel room"); mild threats of violence towards an OC played humorously, though no actual violence occurs; more crying; references to the overdose; and you _will_ need to suspend your disbelief some because of magic shenanigans, but I think it's worth it, personally. Oh! And actual very slight harm _does_ come to the Stanley Cup, though let's be real, it had it coming. ;)
> 
> Thanks as always to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for her champion beta skills, especially in light of this monster of a chapter. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/I_live_with_Him_%E2%80%94_I_see_His_face_%E2%80%94). ^^

\---

 

 _I live with Him — I see His face —_  
_I go no more away_  
_For Visitor — or Sundown —_  
_Death's single privacy_

 

\---

 

Seeing Eric on a mission is something else entirely.

After he calms down and dries his eyes, Eric looks at Kent with an expression of steely resolve. “Alright, honey,” he says, “how are we gonna do this?”

“Uh,” Kent says, “well, I literally just figured out that this is probably the Stanley Cup’s fault, so I don’t have much of a plan yet.”

Eric nods, frowning slightly. “Right,” he says. “We need to go and see it again. Who’s got it this week?”

“Uh, I think Pager’s up next,” Kent answers. He checks his phone—and, yep, Pager would be getting the Cup the day after tomorrow.

Eric goes for his laptop. “He’ll be back home in Boston, right?” he asks.

“I’m guessing so, if his plans stayed the same,” Kent says, shrugging.

“Gotcha,” Eric says, typing quickly. “Okay, I’m booking us for a flight at nine a.m. tomorrow—could you call or text Pager and let him know that we’ll be coming?”

“Sure,” Kent says. He gets out his phone to do so, and wonders if Eric is really avoiding looking at him too much, or if it’s just him. Sneaking another glance at Eric, he decides it’s probably just him. Probably.

  

 **Parse** _[6:52 p.m.]_  
Yo Pager

 **Pager** _[6:52 p.m.]_  
Hey, Cap, what’s up?

 **Parse** _[6:52 p.m.]_  
I need a favor, man

 **Pager** _[6:52 p.m.]_  
Sure, shoot

 **Parse** _[6:53 p.m.]_  
it’s your Cup Day the day after tomorrow, right?

 **Pager** _[6:53 p.m.]_  
Yup! I’m gonna spend it at my old rink! Everybody’s super excited.

 **Parse** _[6:54 p.m.]_  
well why wouldn’t they be? favored son and all, winning his Cup in his rookie year, they oughtta be busting out the red carpet

 **Pager** _[6:54 p.m.]_  
Aw, Cap, I didn’t even do much

 **Parse** _[6:54 p.m.]_  
WHAT LIES

 **Parse** _[6:55 p.m.]_  
YOU ARE THE BEST ROOKIE

 **Pager** _[6:56 p.m.]_  
Thanks, Cap. That means a lot.

 **Parse** _[6:57 p.m.]_  
no problem, man

 **Pager** _[6:57 p.m.]_  
So…what’s the favor?

 **Parse** _[6:57 p.m.]_  
shit yeah sorry I got sidetracked

 **Parse** _[6:58 p.m.]_  
um

 **Pager** _[6:58 p.m.]_  
You need to borrow the Cup?

 **Parse** _[6:58 p.m.]_  
YES

 **Parse** _[6:59 p.m.]_  
I’M SO FUCKING SORRY

 **Parse** _[7:00 p.m.]_  
it’ll only be like for an hour TOPS. I PROMISE

 **Parse** _[7:01 p.m.]_  
I think

 **Pager** _[7:02 p.m.]_  
No, Cap, it’s cool. You want it in the morning or the afternoon?

 **Parse** _[7:02 p.m.]_  
morning, probably? whatever works best for you, man 

 **Pager** _[7:02 p.m.]_  
That’s fine.

 **Parse** _[7:03 p.m.]_  
thanks, buddy

 **Parse** _[7:03 p.m.]_  
I’ll drop by your place at around 11? Eric will be with me

 **Parse** _[7:04 p.m.]_  
so please send me your address?

 **Pager** _[7:04 p.m.]_  
Cap, no, just tell me where to bring it.

 **Parse** _[7:05 p.m.]_  
no, it’ll be okay if it’s at your house, I don’t want to inconvenience you

 **Pager** _[7:05 p.m.]_  
…Cap. Like. It’s okay. Just tell me where to bring it.

 **Pager** _[7:05 p.m.]_  
I know you want to propose to Eric. 

 **Pager** _[7:05 p.m.]_  
I don’t mind letting you use part of my Cup Day for that.

 **Pager** _[7:06 p.m.]_  
Just let me know when and where. You can take as long as you need.

 

Kent stares at his phone. “Fuck,” he says, torn between wanting to hug the shit out of Pager and wanting to laugh manically until he literally can’t breathe anymore. He has the best team, honestly, like, fuck everybody else, but this is also really not the fucking time for this.

Eric looks over at him. He’s got a suitcase propped open on the bed and it’s already half-filled. “What, sweetie?” he asks.

Kent gestures helplessly. “Uh, Pager sort of thinks I want to borrow the Cup so I can propose to you,” he says.

Eric closes his eyes briefly, pained. “Of course he does. What a sweetheart.” He bites his lip and clasps his hands together tightly, pressing them against his sternum; Kent can’t help but think it looks like he’s trying to literally hold himself together.

Kent glances at the matching set of ring boxes sitting on the bed where Eric had placed them.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says, not taking his gaze off them, “I’m a hundred and ten percent certain that your Kent would’ve said yes tonight. If he’d been here.”

Eric opens his eyes and gives him a teary smile. “Thank you, sugar,” he says. “I think so, too.” He laughs, the sound of it watery. “God, I can’t believe he hid it in the sock drawer. How clichéd. Wasn’t he worried about me finding it?”

“Dude,” Kent says. “You never do the fucking laundry. When would you have found it?”

Eric shrugs. “Apparently right in time for my life to implode on itself.” He sighs, running a hand over his face. “God. How is this happening?”

“Uh—”

“Don’t answer, that was a rhetorical question.”

Kent tries for a grin. “Good, because I have absolutely no fucking clue besides the fact that apparently all the superstitions are true and the Stanley Cup _is_ actually magical.”

“Who’d have thought?” Eric says. He looks at Kent, then down at his hands.

“What should I tell Pager?” Kent asks.

“Tell him…tell him you have a reservation at Luna’s Café.” Eric rattles off an address that Kent dutifully types down. “The owner’s a friend of mine. We—my Kent and I, we go there anytime we’re in Boston. Tell Pager you’ll need the Cup from ten to eleven-thirty,” Eric says. “We’ll…we’ll have a fake proposal, then we’ll—we’ll make it switch you back. I can ask my Kent for real when he’s home.”

“Good plan,” Kent agrees softly, and Eric nods. He doesn’t look up from where he’s fiddling with the ring finger of his left hand.

Kent texts Pager the itinerary, then leaves the room for a bit to call Swoops and ask him if he and Mags can cat-sit. After, he goes to the restroom, splashes some water on his face, and tries not to think of what a disaster this night has been. Tries instead to tell himself it’s a good thing that he’ll be home in a few days.

It doesn’t really work.

“You are so fucked,” he whispers to the mirror.

His reflection doesn’t answer, just stares back with gray eyes already haunted by the ghost of goodbye.

 

\---

 

Eric sits down on the bed and stares at his phone for a bit. He knows he needs to call Luna, set up their reservations there, find a hotel they can stay at for a few days, etc., etc. There are so many things he _has_ to get done, but—but—

He doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he does what he always does when he doesn’t know what the fuck to do:

He calls Carrie.

“Hey, so how’d it go?” Carrie asks as soon as she picks up, not even letting it ring more than once—like she was waiting for the call.

“Carrie,” Eric says, his voice breaking.

“That great, huh?” she teases, laughing a little. “God, I knew you were gonna cry. I bet Kenny cried more, though. Was he surprised?”

Eric squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together to keep from screaming. She sounds so happy for him—so delighted, so _sure_ that everything went according to plan. Or maybe she’s certain that even if it didn’t, Eric still asked and Kent answered yes, and that the two of them were going to get hitched, come hell or high water.

“I didn’t ask him,” Eric says instead.

She sucks in a startled breath before letting it explode in a cascade: “ _What?_ Why the hell not? What went wrong? I thought you—”

“Carrie,” Eric says. “Carrie, I need you to sit down.”

The line goes silent. Then, “Oh, my God. What happened—what—is Kenny—”

“Um. This is—this is going to sound crazy but, um.” Eric takes a deep breath and blurts out, “Kenny’s missing.”

“He’s _what?!”_ Carrie shouts, shocked.

“He’s—he’s—oh, God, this is the stupidest fucking thing.” Eric inhales again, trying to fill up his lungs as far as they can go in an effort to keep calm, and tells her, “He’s in an alternate universe. The Stanley Cup kidnapped him and sent him to a different w—”

“Eric,” Carrie interrupts, impatient, “if this is some kind of joke—”

“It’s not!” Eric shouts. “It’s—it’s _not_ , Carrie, he’s gone, he’s missing, he’s—oh, God, what if I don’t get him back?” he says, his voice breaking. “Carrie, what if I can’t get him back? I’m so scared, I—I—”

“Holy shit,” Carrie says. “Holy shit, Eric, it’s gonna be fine, it’s—look, I’ll call him right now, we’ll get this whole mess straightened out—”

“He’s not here!” Eric yells. “He’s—oh, God, I’m fucking this whole thing up, I—” He starts sobbing and can’t stop.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks as Carrie tries to calm him down. He can hear himself just flat-out wailing like the world is ending, and he can’t do anything about it, the sounds just pouring out of his mouth. God, he hates it when he gets like this, when he can’t control how he’s feeling or how hard he’s crying. One of the only things that calms him down when he gets like this is—is—

 _Kenny_ , he thinks desperately, _Kenny, baby, I need you. I need you._

And just like that, strong, familiar arms wrap around him. “Hey,” Kenny says, holding him close, running his hand up and down Eric’s back, pressing Eric’s face against his shoulder. Eric pushes himself closer and takes deep, gulping breaths, feeling his heart start to slow down, his lungs start to work like they’re supposed to.

Then Eric breathes in another lungful of air and almost starts sobbing again—because Kent smells the same. He has the _exact same_ scent, and he hugs in just the right way, and it’s Kenny’s voice talking in his ear, and Kenny’s heart beating against his cheek, and, God, Eric wishes he could just close his eyes and pretend that the past hour was nothing but a bad dream.

It’s not, though. He knows it’s not, knew for days that something was different, was off about Kent—now he just knows what it is.

Eric can hear Kent talking above him, but it doesn’t seem to be directed towards him. Then he registers Carrie’s name. Oh. He must’ve picked up the phone. That’s good; Eric didn’t mean to freak out on her—she must be so worried—he should’ve explained this whole thing better instead of just falling apart, oh, God—

“Carrie-girl,” Kent says, interrupting his racing thoughts, “I’m going to put you on speaker-phone, okay?”

“Kenny, what the fuck,” she says a second later, sounding angry. If she were here in front of them, Eric would bet that her eyes would be ice-blue with it. “You guys, this isn’t funny—”

“Believe me, sis, I know,” Kent says. “But he’s not lying. It’s true. I’m not your Kent.”

“Kenny—”

“You went to Mills College,” Kent says. “In my universe. You liked the campus, you liked that it was close to Vegas, you liked that it was a women’s lib college, and you liked that the girl who gave you the tour also gave you her number.”

Carrie pauses. “Yeah, Kenny, but we met Eric, like, three days later. I liked DU better, remember?”

“You met him,” Kent says gently. “I didn’t. I was in Vegas that summer, sweetheart—I got a speeding ticket, had to take classes so I could get my license back. I didn’t go with you and Mom.”

“Kenny, what the fuck, you were _there_ ,” she insists. “It’s—it’s the fucking anniversary of the day we met him, don’t you remember?”

“Carrie, I can’t,” he says, laughing, the sound of it sour. Eric shudders to hear it; he hates it when Kent sounds like that. It means he’s hurting. It means he’s laughing because he won’t let himself cry instead. Eric leans in closer on instinct. “I can’t. Look, I can’t tell you the first thing about that day—can’t tell you where we were when it happened, or what we were doing, or anything about it. I can’t tell you _because I wasn’t there_.”

“Kenny—”

“Would I lie to you?” he demands. “You’re my best girl, Carrie. You know I wouldn’t lie to you. You know—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. Eric finds his hand and squeezes, feels a little steadier when he squeezes back. “You know that your Kent wouldn’t do anything to make Eric cry. Did it sound fake earlier, when he was talking to you?”

“No,” Carrie says, and oh, God, her voice is going wobbly, too. “But—but—but how would it happen? Where—where would you even be, if you’re not the one who’s supposed to be here?”

“We think they switched,” Eric says, finally finding his voice again. “We think—we think they switched places.”

“So he’s in another universe? He’s in _your_ universe?” Carrie asks.

“I fucking hope so,” Kent mutters. “God knows what we’d have to do if he isn’t, or if more than two of us switched.”

“Oh, my God,” Eric says, horrified, not having thought of that possibility. Now it’s Kent’s turn to squeeze his hand reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think the Stanley Cup is that much of an asshole,” Kent says.

“Well, what would _you_ know?” Carrie says belligerently. “If it already did this to you, then—Kenny, are you sure you didn’t just hit your head or something?”

“I’m sure,” Kent says dryly.

“How do you—”

“I’m from a universe where I’m not dating Eric, for one thing,” Kent interrupts.

A short silence. Then, dismayed, Carrie asks, “Oh, God, please don’t tell me you’re still with Zimms.”

“Wha—no!” Kent says. “For God’s sake, why does everybody keep thinking that we’re dating? We’re just friends!”

“Just friends, my ass,” Carrie says, snorting in disbelief, and this is why Eric loves her. “Kenny, what other reason would you have for not dating Eric? Like, who would you even—”

“I’m not dating Jack because _Jack_ is the one who’s dating Eric,” Kent says, annoyed, and, yep, the thought still gives Eric the heebie-jeebies.

A longer silence. Then, “What the fuck.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Eric says, feeling vindicated.

Carrie asks, suspicious, “Eric, are you sure—”

“We’re _sure_ ,” he and Kent chorus in unison.

Carrie sighs. “Dude, doing the whole in-sync couple thing isn’t helping your case,” she points out.

“How do you want me to prove it?” Kent demands, tugging at his hair in frustration. “All I’ve got is all the things I don’t know, and if you think I’ve developed a case of laser-guided amnesia, then what the fuck can I do to make you believe me?”

Eric blinks. “Take off your pants,” he says.

Kent’s mouth drops open. “What the hell?” he says, Carrie echoing the sentiment.

“Take off your pants,” Eric repeats. “My Kenny has a tattoo—”

“Dude, I have about three,” Kent says.

“—of my initials. If you’re who you say you are, then you wouldn’t have it, would you?”

Kent’s mouth snaps shut. He takes off his pants, blushing prettily as he does so, and something in Eric’s chest aches to see it. Kent still blushes now, but usually it’s when Eric’s teasing him, or saying something suggestive. He hasn’t blushed when stripping in forever, too eager to feel shy. Suddenly, the odd feeling of nostalgia that had hit Eric so frequently the past few weeks makes sense—Kent had reminded him of the Kent from when they’d first started dating, the one who’d been both charming and hesitant, vulnerable yet warily distant, aching to give and receive affection, and so walled up he had trouble doing either.

 _No wonder he seemed so different_ , Eric thinks, looking at Kent Parson standing there with his self-consciousness masked, the bravado he puts on for strangers out in full-force. _No wonder he seemed so familiar._

“Well?” Kent demands.

Eric touches a gentle hand to the smooth skin at the top of Kent’s left thigh. It’s unmarked, no trace of the small cursive _e.r.b._ Eric had impulsively written on him once, just as a reminder to himself that he had a claim, that they had something real, even if no one else would see it. The next time they saw each other, he’d cried to see that Kent had had it permanently inked there, right above a heart-shaped pie.   

“So anybody can see I’m yours,” he’d said.

It isn’t there now. Eric says as much, his voice hollow.

Carrie exhales, the sound of it shaky. “Well, shit.”

“That’s a decent summary of the night,” Eric says, chuckling bitterly.

“So…” Kent says, tense beneath Eric’s hand. Eric jerks his fingers away. “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow?” He explains the plan, and Carrie agrees to meet them at the airport.

“I’d have you stay with us,” she says, regretful, “but Chowder’s crashing on the couch.”

“It’s no trouble,” Eric assures her.

“Love you guys,” she says softly.

“Love you, too, Carrie-girl,” Kent replies, the way he always does at the end of every call with her. Eric’s throat goes tight to hear it, knows it’s reflected in his voice when he echoes the sentiment.

When they finally hang up, Kent looks at him. “Um, I guess I’ll go sleep in the guest bedroom,” he says awkwardly.

Eric shakes his head mutely and presses his face against Kent’s shoulder. “Stay,” he pleads. He knows it’s not fair of him to do this—knows this Kent probably doesn’t even think of him that way, but.

But.

He _needs_ this. He just—he can’t sleep alone tonight. He _can’t_.

“Okay,” Kent Parson says, just like he knew he would. It’s always been easy to get him to work against his best interests, so long as Eric says the right words in the right tone—so long as Eric is sure to let him know just how much he needs him. Kenny’s always needed to be needed, and Eric isn’t surprised to see that that part of him hasn’t changed. He knows the core of Kent Parson down to his bones, and usually he does his best not to take advantage of this fact, but he doesn’t want to be his best tonight. Doesn’t even want to be particularly _good_. He just wants his Kenny, and in lieu of that, he’ll take the next best thing.

“Okay,” Kent Parson says, and Eric tucks his face against his neck so he won’t have to see how his eyes are the dull brown they get when he’s hurting.

He stays, and that’s the important thing.

 

\---

 

In a universe seven steps away, Kent Parson leaves.

Kent nearly talked himself out of the visit a thousand times as his date of departure approached. Each time he imagined telling Eric no, and just couldn’t do it.

Look, he always knew his love for Eric was stronger than his irrational fear—or anger, or longing, or whatever—towards Jack, but he really fucking wishes this wasn’t the way Eric had asked him to prove it, you know?

Regardless, once the fated day arrives, Kent Parson bids farewell to his cats, grabs his bags, and gets on a plane that takes him to Providence, Rhode Island.

Jack Zimmermann meets him at the airport, his blue eyes warm as summer skies and his smile stretching across his face like a welcome just for Kent. Kent almost can’t believe his eyes, wonders if he reaches out a hand to touch him if Jack would prove himself a mirage and disappear.

Kent doesn’t want to stay and see if that’s true. He wants to run as far and as fast as he can, away from Jack Zimmermann’s eyes, and his hands, and his broad, steady shoulders. But he can’t. He doesn’t.

“Hey, man,” Kent says instead, stopping a few feet away from him, wearing his careful, media-perfect smile like a shield.

Jack doesn’t seem to notice that anything’s wrong. He steps forward. Before Kent can do anything, can even think to back away, to stop him, he wraps his arms around him.

“Hi, Parse,” Zimms says, right into his ear. “It’s good to see you.”

 _Oh, God_ , Kent thinks. _I’m not going to survive this._

“Good to see you, too,” he croaks, raising his arms to woodenly hug Jack back. Jack pats him on the shoulder, a firm, solid touch, before finally pulling away.

Kent breathes again.

 

\---

 

The car ride is quiet. Kent’s bags are in the back, and he puts his feet up on the dashboard, feeling antsy and caged in.

Jack reaches over and curls his hand around Kent’s ankle, two of his fingers landing on the gap between Kent’s canvas shoes and his jeans, the touch of them electric—

Kent drops his foot so fast it thuds against the floor. Jack just shakes his head and grins at him. “Still skittish as a cat, huh?” he says.

“Guess so,” Kent replies, blinded. He hasn’t seen that smile since they were eighteen, and by then he’d had to work for it, had to avoid a thousand land-mines, had to keep his voice bright and carefully careless, had to figure out just the right combination of obnoxious and funny to earn even one of Jack’s breath-taking grins.

What does he do with a Jack Zimmermann that hands them over like they’re something Kent has a right to expect?

Kent doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know, decides he doesn’t even want to think about it.

So he doesn’t.

Kent stares at the scenery instead, keeping his eyes resolutely on the other cars passing by as if they’re the most engrossing thing he’s ever seen. And you know what? They might as well be. He just saw a car from Hawaii driving by— _Hawaii_. That car has traveled over the ocean and everything. How absolutely fucking fascinating.

“Uh…” Jack starts awkwardly when they get stuck in the middle of a traffic jam.

Kent automatically starts matching that tone to the database he has compiled in his head, trying to figure out which one it is before forcing himself to stop. He turns his head and raises a quizzical brow instead, decides to just wait him out before coming to any incorrect conclusions.

Jack clears his throat. “Bitty said you were having some trouble lately.” He pauses. “With things.”

Kent blinks. It sounds like…like Jack is willing to lend him an ear. Like he wants to know what’s wrong in Kent’s life. Which. Duh, Parson, he’s your friend, of course he wants to know. In this world, they never came to—not a truce, but an understanding, certainly. A ceasefire, a mutually-agreed upon armistice, with the boundaries set and the lines drawn and the two of them promising never, ever to cross them unless the need was dire.  

Here, the need isn’t dire, but Jack is making his way across no-man’s-land anyway to meet him.

Maybe…maybe Kent should stop being an asshole for things Jack can’t help and meet him halfway.

“Yeah,” he admits slowly, wondering how to phrase what’s wrong with his life without sounding like a complete lunatic. He’s still got three people he could tell, but Jack Zimmermann sure as hell isn’t on the list. “Things have been…rough. Lately.”

 _Great, Parse_ , he thinks scathingly. _That definitely let him know everything he needs to know to try and help you._

 _Well, gee fucking whiz, was I supposed to ask him to break up with his boyfriend so I could have him instead?_ he shoots back, which is honestly the demand that’s been hovering on his tongue ever since he found out where Eric was in this universe.

Aaaand now he’s talking to himself. Great. Just great.

Jack nods deliberately. “Rough how?” he asks. “Is it hockey?”

Kent barks out a laugh that’s only a little bitter. “Not everything’s about hockey, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack says patiently. “That’s why I’m asking.” He gives him a considering glance. “Is Carrie doing alright?”

“Yep,” Kent says, popping the word and slouching back against his seat, preparing himself for a round of Twenty Questions with Jack No-Longer-Entirely-a-Hockey-Robot Zimmermann.

“She still with Tad?”

“Ted,” Kent corrects.

Jack nods. “Right. Todd. Got it.”

Kent smirks despite himself, then tries not to notice how Jack’s eyes fucking light up to see it. “Yeah, they’re still dating, despite my best efforts to convince her to dump the guy. At least she’s not too serious about him—frankly, at this point I think she’s just using him as a combination of bed-warmer and somebody to answer the door for take-out.”

“I’d say smart girl, but she’s still dating Tim, so.” Jack shrugs.

“Fucking harsh, man,” Kent says, grin widening. “I’m telling her you said that.”

Jack has a small smile on his face as he taps his fingers against the wheel. “If she says I’ve got no room to talk since I dated _you_ , tell her that I learned my lesson and upgraded.”

Kent’s grin slides right off his face.

Jack looks like he wants to punch himself. “Crisse, Parse, that was out of line. I’m—”

“My boyfriend left me.”

Silence fills the car. Kent stares at the dashboard. It’s not the truth, but it’s the closest explanation he has for why he feels so hopeless, so lost, so full of pent-up anger and sadness. He hasn’t left Eric, he’s been _forced_ to leave, but he can’t say that so he says this instead, and hopes it’s enough of a huge fucking bomb that Jack stays clear and leaves him the hell alone.

“Parse, I’m—I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack says, remorse written all over his face, and Kent doesn’t want him to be sorry—he wants him to be gone, to be two thousand miles away, to never, ever be within three fucking feet of him again—

Kent takes a deep breath and shrugs. “Is what it is.”

“I didn’t even know you were seeing anybody,” Jack says, sounding lost.

“We were on the down-low,” Kent says, which was half-way true. He and Eric were closeted, certainly, but everybody who mattered to them knew. Hell, they’d been sending joint Christmas presents for years now.

Jack nods as if he understands. “Still in the closet?”

“Yeah.”

Jack sighs. “That’s rough.” A long pause. “Did you ask him to go public with you?”

Christ, he sounds so gentle about it, like they’re talking about some deep, dark, fragile secret of his: ‘Kent Parson Wants to Hold Hands with Somebody Where People Can See.’

(Never mind that it’s true, never mind that Jack has to know, has to _remember_ how much he wanted that, once upon a time.)

Kent clears his throat. “Not yet. But I was gearing up towards it. I actually wanted to—well, just get a long-term commitment first. Didn’t—didn’t go quite as planned.”

Wasn’t that an understatement. But Jack’s jaw clenches tight, and he turns to face Kent head-on. “Then the break-up is a good thing,” Jack says, as if he knows any fucking thing about it.

 _He doesn’t know a thing about it because you’re lying through your fucking teeth, Parse_ , his common sense points out.

Kent ignores it. “It isn’t,” he declares, incensed. “It’s—it’s terrible, it’s the worst thing to ever happen to me, it’s—”

“I’m all for people coming out on their own time, at their own pace,” Jack interrupts. “But hiding is—that’s not where you’re at anymore. That’s not what you want. And if—Crisse, Kent, if all you wanted was commitment and he wasn’t ready even for that, then it was a good thing you broke up with him,” Jack says stubbornly. “Anybody would be lucky to be with you. Anybody.”

Kent frowns and opens his mouth to argue.

“Kent,” Jack says, his eyes sincere and earnest. “Kent, you deserve better.”

Kent scoffs and turns his head away.

“Kent. You do. You know you—”

“Drop it, man,” Kent says through the lump in his throat.

Jack, mercifully, drops it.

“…thanks, though,” Kent mutters after a moment. “You’re wrong. But, like. Thanks.”

“Of course, buddy.”

They let the conversation lapse into silence. Kent closes his eyes and lets himself relax, soothed by the movement of the car, which has finally started going at a pace that’s faster than a snail’s crawl.

Within moments, he falls asleep. Zimms’ll get them where they need to go.

 

\---

 

Jack Zimmermann watches Kent Parson from the corner of his eye, and thinks, _A boyfriend._

Which is. Hm. It really oughtn’t be surprising—he knows Parse goes out, dates around, and he’s certainly showed up to interviews sporting hickeys often enough.

It’s just—well. This is the first time since they’ve become friends again that Parse has ever seemed… _serious_ about somebody. And—look, he knows Parse. He may talk a good game, flirt with everybody he meets, and act like he’s only in search of fun hook-ups, but when it comes down to it, once he gets attached, Parse falls fast and he falls hard. He doesn’t _do_ casual, and when he commits, he commits.

( _You and me, Zimms_ , an elated, dozen-years-younger voice says in his mind. _You and me. We’re gonna make history together, the two of us, just watch._ )

So ‘a boyfriend’ probably meant ‘a guy I’m gone on,’ and ‘long-term commitment’ most likely translated to ‘I love you, please move in with me.’ And Jack _knows_ Parse hadn’t been seeing anybody back in February—he’d complained about being single for Valentine’s Day—so it means this relationship had to have been less than six months old.

And Jack could’ve chalked Parse’s mood up to being dramatic and sulky at yet another dating experience gone south, but—

But his eyes had been nearly dark brown, with shadows both in them and under them, his skin sallow and pale, and his cheekbones far too sharp, like he hadn’t bothered to try and put the weight back on. Parse feels like heartbreak all over, looking out the window with an empty expression on his face, and not bothering to fidget or turn the radio on or do a hundred other things to try and get a rise out of Jack. He hadn’t even hugged him very hard at the airport, and Parse _lived_ for good, long hugs, for arms thrown over his shoulders or around his waist.    

Instead, he’s quiet. Withdrawn. All the color looks like it’s been leached out of him, and Jack didn’t know it was possible to hate somebody he’s never even met with this kind of visceral depth, but he _hates_ Parse’s ex right now.

(“Drop it, man,” Parse had said, fierce and protective over some asshole who couldn’t even meet him halfway, and something hot and vicious had flared in Jack’s gut at the realization that somebody _else_ had made Parse sound this way, had made him sound the way he only ever had for—

Jack stops that train of thought cold.

 _It’s not like that anymore_ , he tells himself, exasperated. _You can’t be jealous. It’s not **fair**_. _You’ve got Bitty now, and Parse deserves to have that, too. You feel sorry for him, that’s all._

He looks at Parse’s closed eyes, his gold-dusted lashes casting long shadows on his too-sharp cheekbones, and even broken-hearted and exhausted, he makes Jack wish he had a camera on him.

He thinks of Parse’s boyfriend. He thinks, _What an idiot._ )

 

\---

 

When they get to the apartment, Jack shakes Parse awake with a hand to his shoulder.

Parse’s eyes snap open, and he jerks back in surprise. “Fuck,” he groans, pressing a hand over his face. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Like you’re surprised. When have you ever been able to sit in a moving vehicle and stay awake?” Jack asks.

Parse sets his mouth mulishly and rolls his shoulders, stretches out his neck. “I’ve done it before,” he claims.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jack chirps. They trade barbs like that all the way to the front door, falling into familiar patterns with the ease of constant practice, though Parse _is_ a bit more distracted than usual.

Then they close the door behind them, and Jack’s favorite voice says, “Welcome home!”

“We’re back,” he calls out in reply, and he takes off his shoes and wanders into the kitchen, where Bitty’s already setting out lunch.

“Hey, you,” Bitty says, tilting his face up for a kiss that Jack has to remind himself to keep perfunctory. Bitty’s eyes are warm and content when he pulls back, a small, secretive smile lurking at the corner of his lips. Then his eyes slant over to the kitchen doorway, and his smile gets wider but also about ten times more fake. “Why, hello there, Parse! It’s lovely to see you ag—again?”

Bitty blinks, surprised, and Jack turns around, wondering what caught him off-guard. Then he sees Parse’s face and—oh.

It’s only for a second, just in the moment before he pulls on his camera-ready smile, his Kent V. Parson-persona, but in that moment, Parse looks absolutely gutted, like someone took a knife and shoved it right through him.

 _Shit_ , Jack thinks. The break-up. It must’ve been more recent than he thought, if even the sight of somebody being as boringly affectionate as he and Bits are is enough to make Parse look like that.

“It’s good to see you again, Eric,” Parse says, his smile bright and fake, his voice pitched to match. “Thanks for having me in your home.”

Bitty darts a questioning look up at Jack, who’s standing there frozen like an idiot, unable to say anything. Bitty’s eyes narrow at Jack for a moment before he turns his attention back to Parse, waving off his words and coming forward. “It’s no problem, Parse. Here, lemme show you your room and you can go and freshen up before we sit down for lunch. How does that sound?”

Parse clears his throat, eyeing the hand Bitty has on his arm to guide him with—distaste? Unease? Jack is disturbed to realize he can’t actually tell, especially when Parse is usually an open book to him, has been since they were sixteen. Whatever expression he made, he shakes it off and flashes another easy smile. “Sounds good to me, Eric.”

Bitty’s mouth goes flat for moment. “Please,” he says, sugar-sweet, and _shit_ , Jack knows that tone, and it’s never meant good things, “call me Bittle.”

Parse’s eyebrows wing upwards in surprise, like he can hear the venom hidden in Bitty’s voice, which is odd considering that Parse typically misses about 65% of Bitty’s passive-aggression when they’re interacting in person and not online. “Sure thing, Bittle,” he says, then snaps his fingers. “Wait, before I forget—got you guys something.”

“Oh, sweetie, you really didn’t need—to?” Bitty blinks in surprise as Parse rummages through his duffel and pulls out a medium-sized wooden container, one that held five jars of—

“Honey?” Bitty says, staring down at the gift.

Parse shrugs. “Yeah. I usually get them from some of the local farmers’ markets. Each one tastes different, thanks to the flowers we’ve got in the Southwest. Figured you might never have tried them before.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, sounding as flabbergasted as Jack feels. “I suppose I haven’t. Um. Thank you.”

Parse tilts his head and looks at Bitty—well, ‘intently’ is the word that comes to mind, though ‘predatorily’ might also fit, but that can’t be right. Jack knows Parse and Bitty don’t exactly _like_ each other, but they’ve called a truce for his sake—Parse wouldn’t be gunning for Bits, and if he were, he wouldn’t do it by giving him _honey_.

Would he?

“You like ’em?” Parse asks.

Something about the question snaps Bitty back to the present, because he lifts his nose up and sniffs disdainfully. “Well, I’ll give them a try and let you know how it goes,” he says, setting the gift down on the kitchen counter.

“Good,” Parse says softly, and follows Bitty down the hallway to the guest bedroom, looking a little like a lost puppy.

Jack is left standing in the kitchen, wondering what the hell just happened.

 

\---

 

“What the hell was that?” Bitty hisses as they finish setting up the table.

“Parse got dumped,” Jack murmurs back.

Bitty rolls his eyes. “Again?”

Jack shakes his head, because Bitty’s assuming that this is another case of Eight-Date Kent running somebody off again, and it’s—

“It’s not—I think it was serious this time, Bits,” Jack replies.

Bitty pauses in the act of putting down a soup spoon. “Oh,” he says, surprised.

“He, um. He called the guy his boyfriend.” Jack fiddles with the edge of the tablecloth. “And he seemed—euh. I don’t know. Really upset about it.”

“I…see,” Bitty says. “And being unnaturally friendly is his way of coping with it?”

“I guess?” Jack says, shrugging. “I mean, I’ve never really seen him after a serious break-up, not unless you count—”

 _After the draft,_ he doesn’t say, but he thinks it. Thinks of Parse plastering on a wide, fake smile for the cameras in every interview that he watched over and over, the sight of Parse like pressing fingers to a bruise. He thinks of an endlessly full voicemail inbox, each message starting the same: _Hey, it’s Kenny, I miss you_. He thinks of Parse’s voice reaching down the hallway of the rehab center like grasping, sharp-thorned vines, flirting shamelessly with the receptionists in an attempt to get past them, see his best friend, just for two minutes, miss, it wouldn’t hurt, right?

Thinks of all the tabloid photos afterward, the articles on page 4 or 5 of trashy magazines that had a different girl in Parse’s lap in every issue, their hands in his hair, his mouth on their necks. Thinks how all the bad press was still somehow outweighed by the good, with Parse charming the hell out of the cameras and dominating the Aces’ social media feeds. Thinks of Parse horsing around with the rest of the rookies like he was Peter Pan and they were his Lost Boys. Thinks of him getting treated like he was a little shit, but goddamn if he wasn’t _their_ little shit by everybody else. And, of course, he thinks of Parse practicing on the ice with the biggest, happiest grin on his face, young and invincible and ready to take the world by storm.

Kent Parson at eighteen—post-Zimms, post-break-up, post-heartache—made a name for himself by getting everybody around him to fall in love with him, and he did it all with a smirk on his face.

(He did it with tears hidden in his voice, heard only by Jack when he gave in and listened to those desperate pleas, late at night when it felt like the only thing besides numbness he _could_ feel was vindictive satisfaction that at least Kenny was hurting, too. That he was just as fucked up, even if he could hide it better.

That’s what he told himself: that they were equally worthless, the two of them, and the only difference was that Parse was better at lying about it.)

Jack’s hands still. Maybe…maybe being unnaturally friendly _is_ Parse’s way of coping with it. Kind of—of proving to himself that somebody could still want to be around him. Could still want him.

“Bitty,” he says, helpless, and Bitty drops what he’s doing and comes to him.

“Hey,” Bitty says, “it’s not up to you to fix him.”

“But I—what if I’m making it worse?” Jack asks. “I shouldn’t have asked him to come here. I should’ve just dropped it, told him to stay home when he said he couldn’t make it.”

Bitty sighs and runs a soothing hand up and down his back. “Look, honey, if it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine,” he says, “because I’m the one who called him and guilt-tripped him into coming.”

“You—what?” Jack asks.

“The phone call where he told me that things were hectic? I asked him to come,” Bitty repeats. “Told him that it would mean a lot to you. And he said yes.”

“Bits,” Jack says, frowning.

“What? I didn’t know he’d just been dumped!” Bitty protests, and that’s—well. It’s true. He didn’t know, but Jack has the sneaking suspicion that Bitty would’ve asked him anyway.

“I just—can you be nicer to him this visit?” Jack asks.

Bitty huffs, indignant. “I’m always nice!”

“Bitty.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Bitty says, exasperated. “I’ll be _sincerely_ nice, is that better?”

Jack leans down and presses their foreheads together. “Yes,” he says, kissing him. He added, “Thank you.”

Bitty pats his cheek. “Well. For you.”

And that’s good enough for Jack.

 

\---

 

Bitty being nice to Parse goes easier than expected, mostly because Parse is _extremely_ nice towards Bitty, and Bitty was raised from birth to answer kindness with kindness.

Even Jack can admit it’s kind of weird, though—Parse being nice, that is. Mostly because Parse is being nice in very…Bitty-specific ways. As in, he’ll do the dishes without being asked. As in, he’ll pick up Bitty’s scarves and arrange Bitty’s shoes in the foyer. As in, he’ll grab the ingredients off the top shelves before Bitty even asks Jack to do it, or start washing and then dicing vegetables as soon as Bitty has them out of the fridge.

“I’m julienning them, actually,” Parse corrects Jack casually. “That’s how he likes the carrots for this recipe.”

Bitty just turns around and stares at him for a second in shock. “And how do you know that?” he demands.

Parse freezes, looking weirdly panicked, before admitting, “Um, I watch your show?”

“Oh,” Jack and Bitty say in unison, the two of them surprised.

“I didn’t know you liked cooking shows,” Bitty says, and Jack clears his throat guiltily.

“Uh. He does, actually,” Jack admits. He just didn’t think Parse watched Bitty’s, but this just goes to show that he knows a lot less about Parse than he thought he did, even taking into account all the things he missed out on when they weren’t talking. 

Parse slants a crooked smile Bitty’s way, still—julietting? Julierring? Whatever. He’s still slicing the carrots into long strips, is what he’s doing. “I like yours,” Parse says. “You’re very good at teaching shortcuts and tricks to people who probably don’t have a lot of time or money, or experience at cooking for themselves. And you never make anybody feel dumb for modifying a recipe to suit their needs, even if according to _some_ people that ‘takes away the authenticity,’” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, my God,” Bitty gasps, “are you throwing shade at Tommy Greene from the Food Network?”

“Well, duh,” Parse says, waving the knife around in emphasis. “I fucking hate that guy’s elitist bullshit. Like, fuck you, single moms who put food on the table every day are as authentic as it gets.”

“I _know_ ,” Bitty says, his eyes lighting up. “Good Lord, who even cares if they use a mix? I’m sure it’ll taste better than his stupid PBR cupcakes. Why, just the other day—”

Bitty gets going, chattering a mile a minute, and Jack leans back, content to listen to him. Then he glances at Parse to see how he’s taking someone else monopolizing the conversation—and has to keep his mouth from dropping open.

Because Parse is smiling softly at Bitty, his eyes openly affectionate as they catalog each hand gesture, every tilt of the head, all of the movements that give Bitty’s words so much personality.

Jack knows that look—Jack had seen Parse look that way at him, once upon a time. And he’s seen his own face in the mirror, now and then, when he’s thinking about Bitty. So he knows what it means—he knows _exactly_ what it means that Parse is shooting that look at Bitty, five days into a one-week visit.

It means he’s falling in love.

 

\---

 

“Jack Zimmermann, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Bitty tells him that night. They’re brushing their teeth, and as usual, Bitty is talking through a mouthful of toothpaste and most of a toothbrush.

“Bittle, it’s true,” Jack says after spitting. He knows what he saw.

“If he’s in love with anybody in this house, it’s _you_ ,” Bitty argues.

Jack blinks, taken aback. “What—Bitty, no.” That’s not—that’s not even remotely true. What he and Parse had has been over for a long time. It’s stupid to even think any differently.

Bitty sighs. “Sweetheart, haven’t you seen the way he’s been staring? He looks at you like he hasn’t seen you in years instead of months, and when you smile—Lord! He looks like he’s been hit with a two-by-four.”

Jack blushes. “That’s not—that can’t be true.”

“Oh, but him being in love with me is?” Bitty asks, rolling his eyes.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack declares firmly, because it is. He knows he’s right. He may not know Kent Parson the best of anyone anymore, but he knows what Parse looks like when he loves someone. Knows that he won’t ever forget it— _can’t_ ever forget it, not when that look on Parse’s face was the only thing that got him through some days, back in the Q. Not when that look was the only thing that made him feel safe, that gave him the space to breathe, even if after the draft ( _after the overdose_ ) it felt like chains holding him down, like a noose around his neck.

“Jack, what would you even want me to do about it, if it _is_ true?” Bitty asks, and Jack’s teeth snap closed. He hadn’t…really thought that far, too focused on getting Bitty to see what was happening.

“I—I don’t know,” he says, his hand clenching tight where it grips the counter. The thought of Bitty leaving him for Parse was—well, it was ridiculous, but it also made anxiety roil hard in his stomach, a cold whisper of what-if defying any of his common sense’s attempts to subdue it. But the thought of Parse falling in love with Bitty and getting _rejected_ —and so soon after his break-up, heartbreak piled on top of heartbreak—well, that made the anxiety even _worse_ , for some inexplicable reason.

Bitty looks at him with considering eyes. “Do you think it’s a rebound thing?” he asks.

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean—maybe? I don’t know,” Jack says, shaking his head. “I just know that he loves you, and that I—I don’t want you to hurt him.”

“Jack,” Bitty says, his voice so tender and understanding that Jack almost wants to weep. “Baby, I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”

And Jack knows that. Of course he knows that, Crisse, what other option is there?

But.

But Jack has to say it. “But he’s already been hurt so much. _I’ve_ —”

_—already hurt him so much._

Jack bites his tongue to keep the words from spilling out. He’s not sure he’ll ever get over this, the sense of guilt he harbors for using Kenny during those years in the Q, taking all he had to offer like it was his right, and then throwing him to the wolves in order to save himself. He knows Kent hurt him, too, that the injuries inflicted were more than mutual, that he did the best he could with the worst he had but, _God_ , that doesn’t help when he remembers Kenny at eighteen, crammed into a hospital room chair, fast asleep, with a paper taped to his shirt reading, _I’m fine. Don’t wake me up. I’m staying with him_.

And then the look on his face when he woke up and saw that Jack was awake, too, and how it fell so hard from hope to agony when Jack opened his mouth and told him to get lost, that he didn’t want to see him.

Jack still thinks about that look—not often, but when he does, it’s always a punch to the gut.

He’s apologized, and so has Parse, and he’s grateful that they’ve managed to build something new, something stronger and more lasting than what they had before, but just because it’s better now doesn’t mean part of him doesn’t miss what they had then. It doesn’t mean that part of him won’t always wish he could go back and undo the hurt they visited upon each other. Doesn’t mean that part of him won’t always whisper to be careful with Kenny, to keep him safe from Jack’s hard edges, away from his sharp claws.

Jack bows his head and wishes there was a way to keep from being the reason for Kent Parson’s broken heart yet again.

“Baby,” Bitty murmurs, tucking himself close against his side, “do you want—” He stops himself, sighing. “Do you want us to try…dating Kent Parson? At least until he gets back on his feet?”

“I—” Jack hesitates, because the automatic answer should be no, right? Except when he examines his feelings, that’s not the case. “Well. Only—only if he wants to, I think?”

Bitty frowns. “But what do _you_ want?” he repeats.

Jack clenches his jaw and looks up at the ceiling, considering it. “I want you to be happy,” he says eventually. “And I want Parse to be happy. If you make each other happy, then—I’m okay with it.” And upon closer inspection, he really is.

Bitty shakes his head, a wry quirk to his mouth. “Honey, you do realize that you’re heavily involved in this hypothetical, yes? That he’s still very much in love with you, and will probably leap at the chance only ’cause _you’re_ on the table?”

“I really don’t think that’s the case,” Jack says.

“Well, let’s make it a bet, then. Twenty bucks says he’s in love with you,” Bitty says.

“Deal,” Jack agrees, then asks, “What’ll we do if it’s both of us?”

“Then I guess Parson gets forty dollars,” Bitty replies, shrugging. He pauses, then continues, “Mind you, this is only _if_ he’s interested in me. Which is a very large ‘if,’ if you’re asking me.”

“But you—you’ll consider it,” Jack presses, his anticipation outweighing the dread. “If I’m right?”

Bitty sighs again. “Lord help me,” he says, “but yes. I will.”

Jack nods, satisfied.

 

\---

 

The day after that is a perfect day. Jack normally hesitates to call something that, but from the moment he woke up, that’s all he could think.

Bitty in his arms, pale early morning sunlight gilding his head where it rests on Jack’s shoulder: perfect.

Parse’s easy rhythm beside him, his footsteps perfectly in time with his as they jog through familiar, still-quiet streets: perfect.

The nape of Bitty’s neck, bent forward in invitation as he hums and shimmies his way through the kitchen, warming last night’s leftovers for today’s breakfast: perfect.

The strip of tan skin, the sharp jut of a hipbone, the slight trail of hair revealed when Parse stretches his arm behind his head and his shirt rides up, his movements all languid, careless grace: perfect.

Bitty’s eyes catching on said strip of skin and going dark with desire: perfect.

The three of them cuddled up on the couch together, Parse and Bitty watching Tom Greene’s show and chirping the man ruthlessly: perfect.

Parse’s arm brushing Jack’s shoulders when he stretches it along the back of the couch: perfect.

Bitty pressed against his other side, his hand resting on Jack’s heart: perfect.

Parse falling asleep, the way he always does on slow, lazy afternoons, and Bitty’s face going soft to see him. _Take a picture?_ he mouths. Jack nods and gets his phone out. A photo of Kent Parson’s head slumped against his shoulder like his body remembers and is sure of his welcome: perfect.

Working out with Parse, the two of them pushing each other to their limits, but no further, as they exchange chirps, and trade inside jokes, and switch seamlessly between comfortable silence and easy-going conversation: perfect.

The look on Bitty’s face when they get back to the apartment, Jack’s shirt soaked through with sweat, Parse’s tank top taken off entirely and hanging out of his sports bag, his shoulders shaking with laughter at a joke Jack told: perfect.

Bitty singing as he pops a pie into the oven, Parse chopping the vegetables and joining in on every other verse, absent-minded like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it: perfect.

Watching cheesy romcoms after dinner because they’re Bitty’s favorite genre, and frankly Parse’s, too: perfect.

Wandering back into the living room and seeing that Parse has fallen asleep, and this time he’s burrowed himself into Bitty’s arms, somehow fitting Bitty’s body around him so that he’s the little spoon: perfect.

Bitty pushing back Parse’s hair with a gentle hand, and looking up to smile ruefully at Jack. His voice, a mix of sheepish and excited, saying, “Well, I guess you and I owe him forty bucks.” Jack’s heart, so full in his chest it’s aching, beating quickly as he replies, “Yeah,” an answering smile stretching across his face: perfect.

Falling asleep with Bitty beside him, Parse in the next room, thinking about how tomorrow, Bitty will be kissing Parse. That maybe—maybe—Parse will be kissing _him_.

Jack closes his eyes and thinks, _Perfect._

 

\---

 

In a universe seven steps away, Eric Bittle closes his eyes and thinks, _This is a fucking disaster._

Kent Parson is in the seat next to his, fast asleep and snoring, and normally Eric would be snapping selfies next to him and taking videos like there’s no tomorrow, but normally the Kent Parson he’s next to would actually be the Kent Parson he’s in love with and planning on marrying.

They’ve talked a bit more, this Kent Parson and him—while getting ready to head to the airport, while waiting around in the terminal, while waiting for the plane to take-off, right up until they started moving and Kent inevitably fell asleep—and, frankly, each conversation has raised more questions than it’s answered.

“So you and I aren’t dating?” Eric asked as they set out the cat food for Swoops to easily find when he came over.

“Nope,” Kent answered with a shrug.

“Are we friends at least?” Eric pressed.

Kent grimaced a little. “We’re…friendly. Like I said, we’re Twitter mutuals, and we make nice for Zimms’ sake.”

 _Zimms_. Eric grit his teeth and pushed down his—completely justified!—annoyance at hearing that name out of his boyfriend’s alternate-self’s mouth. “So I’m dating Jack Zimmermann,” he said tersely.

“Yep,” Kent said. “For—four years now? Yeah. Four years.”

That was as long as he and Kent had been dating. Eric frowned slightly. “And I’m a hockey player.”

“ _Were_ a hockey player,” Kent corrected. “A pretty good one, too, you made captain at Samwell and everything.”

“Huh,” Eric said. Him, playing hockey. Who’d’ve thought. Well—Kenny would’ve; he always thought Eric’d make a great player, one who played smart and fast.

(“Bet you’d have soft hands,” Kenny murmured, pressing a kiss to his belly. He nuzzled at Eric’s hip. “Bet you’d be faster than me.”

“Sweetheart, I’m already faster than you,” he said, and Kenny grinned up at him.

“Yeah, I know.”)

As they stood in line, waiting to pass through security, Eric asked, “What do I do now that I don’t play hockey?”

“You’ve got a show on the Cooking Channel,” Kent said. “I’ve seen a few episodes. You’re pretty awesome—you have this ‘Food in Five’ segment that I cribbed a couple recipes from,” Kent said.

“Oh,” Eric said, surprised. He’d…kinda avoided thinking about what would happen after he retired. He was on top of the game now, but after—well, he’d think about it when he had to. To think there was a universe where he had his own cooking show. Well. He felt a little pleased. “Do I do better than Tommy Greene?” he asked.

Kent snorted. “Tommy Greene is a fucking joke. You got voted cutest cooking show host on _Teen Vogue_ and he threw a hissy fit on Twitter. You absolutely roasted him—said he wouldn’t have won even if you weren’t in the running since one of the requirements was ‘the ability to cook something worth eating.’ It was great.”

“Oh,” Eric said.

Later, standing around in the terminal, he asked, “What about you?”

Kent blinked, tilting his head. “What about me?”

 _Oh, Kenny_ , Eric thought, his heart aching. Still the same, in every universe. “How is your life going?”

“Oh, well, you know. Not too different from here. Just without you,” Kent said.

Eric bit his lip. “Are you—are you seeing anybody?”

“Nah,” Kent said, grinning slightly. “Enjoying being young and single, y’know?”

 _You’re lying,_ Eric thought, watching his eyes and noting how Kent’s smile didn’t reach them. No matter what universe Kent Parson is from, this Eric can _always_ read him. “So you’re not in love with anyone?”

Kent looked away. “No,” he said, shrugging.

 _You’re lying_ , Eric thought again, but dropped that line of questioning.

Watching Kent put away their bags overhead, Eric waited until he settled down next to him, fielding a few requests for autographs from the man sitting behind them. “How’s Carrie?”

“Awesome. She’s in the Bay Area, living it up and studying to become a doctor. She’s doing great. Well. Except for the fact that she’s dating this bland-ass dude named Ted, like, seriously, I really need to find Caitlin for her,” Kent said absent-mindedly.

Eric nodded. “I can’t believe we’re not best friends. That’s so weird.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s as weird as the fact that I’m dating—well, you-know-who.”

Kent raised a brow. “You’re putting Zimms on the same level as Voldemort?”

 _He deserves it_ , Eric thought ungraciously, remembering the 2018 Olympics. He shrugged, then his eyes went wide as a thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute, are you saying I don’t have any Olympic medals?” he demanded.

“Oooh,” Kent said, wincing. “That’s a no.”

“What the hell,” Eric said, incensed. No Kenny, no Carrie, no Olympic medals? Well, honestly, _fuck_ that. “Honey, just saying, but your universe sucks.”

He didn’t quite hear what Kent muttered in response, but it sounded a lot like, “Yeah, I know.”

 

\---

 

When Eric gets off the plane and walks into the baggage claim, Carrie is standing there, waiting for them, hands shoved into the front pockets of her jeans, a beanie covering her close-cropped hair.

“Hey, guys,” she says, and Kent goes and picks her up and spins her around.

“Carrie-girl,” he says, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and oh, God, his shoulders are shaking. How hard has this got to be for him, too, stuck in a world where everything’s so different?

Eric feels guilt twist in his gut and resolves to think of this Kenny a little bit more.

“Kenny,” Carrie says back, patting his hair. She meets Eric’s eyes over Kent’s shoulder and holds out a hand. Eric goes and joins the hug, tucking himself by Kent’s side.

(Where he belongs, he thinks. He, this universe’s Eric Bittle, will always belong by Kent Parson’s side.)

“C’mon,” Carrie says after the three of them separate, each of them a little red-eyed. “Cait and Chris are waiting in the car.”

 

\---

 

“Dude, I cannot believe you’re from an alternate universe,” Caitlin Farmer says, glancing back at them in the rearview mirror. Carrie’s sitting beside her, riding shotgun and holding her hand. Kent’s in the backseat, Eric on one side and Chris Chow on the other, broad shoulders bumping into Kent’s every couple of seconds.

“That is so weird, Cap,” Chow says. “I can’t believe you’re not with Eric!” He shakes his head. “It’s just wrong.”

“Hell, I can’t believe I’m not with Cait,” Carrie mutters. “Why the fuck are you and I so screwed over in your universe, huh?”

“Don’t worry, babe, I’ll track her down for you,” Kent promises. He doesn’t address the other part of her question.

“Thanks, man,” Caitlin says, smiling, offering him a quick fist-bump that he returns.

“Is anything else different?” Chow asks. “Like, has Gopher managed to be recruited by the FBI yet? Found Area 51? Confirmed any of his weird science theories?”

“What the fuck? No!” Kent says.

“Well, it’s Gopher, you never know,” Chow says, shrugging, and, well, true enough. Chow tilts his head. “Is Pager still on the Aces? You know he was considering going to Samwell instead, or maybe Minnesota.”

Kent shakes his head. “Nah, _you’re_ the one who went to Samwell.”

“What? No way! You mean Eric and Carrie and I never met?” Chow says, shocked.

“No, you were friends with Eric, just not Carrie,” Kent explains. “Eric went to Samwell, too.”

“What the fuck, dude, what the fuck,” Carrie says. “You are from the darkest timeline, and that is fact.”

“This is weird, Cap,” Chow repeats, slinging a heavy arm over his shoulders. Kent eyes him and resists the urge to shake him off; this is the Aces’ up-and-coming goalie, Carrie’s maybe-boy-toy, and Eric’s good friend. Doesn’t matter that he’s also the dude responsible for breaking Kent’s point-streak in his home universe.

“Do I even play hockey? Or am I an assistant on Eric’s cooking show or something?” Chow asks.

“You play for the Sharks,” Kent admits.

“WHOA,” Chow says, his face lighting up. “That’s awesome!” Then he remembers something and scowls. “Wait a minute, that means I didn’t help us win the Stanley Cup,” he says, outraged.

“Nope,” Kent says.

“What the hell,” Chow says, unhappy. “Carrie, you’re right, he _is_ from the darkest timeline.”

“Like I said,” Carrie says, nodding.

“We gotta rescue Cap,” Chow says. “Who knows how much trouble he’s having, over there all alone?”

Kent slouches in his seat, bumping his knee roughly against Chow’s. “Oops,” he says, deadpan, when Chow yelps and Carrie glares at him.

On his other side, Eric, who’s been silent this whole time, takes his hand and squeezes.

Kent just as silently squeezes back, ignoring Carrie’s knowing look.

It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s not the darkest timeline, it’s just home. He’ll be happy to go back—ecstatic, even.

Eric watches his face and squeezes even tighter, and Kent pretends that he’s not memorizing how their fingers feel linked together, and counting down to when he won’t have this anymore.

(There’s always a countdown, always an expiration date. Kent doesn’t know why he ever thought any different.)

 

\--- 

 

Eric booked them a room with twin beds.

Kent places his bag on the foot of the one closest to the window and tells himself he’s stupid for feeling disappointed.

They brush their teeth together in silence.

As they get ready to go to sleep, Kent looks over and tells Eric, “You’ll get him back tomorrow. I promise.”

Eric sits on the bed, his knees drawn up. There’s an old stuffed bunny sitting on his pillow, wearing a tiny version of Kent’s jersey—Kent’s seen Kit carrying it around tenderly, and didn’t even know it belonged to Eric. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask what it’s called, or if that would just cause Eric to look like somebody’s pressing a needle to his heart again, another reminder that Kent is just a fake, an inferior version.

There’s a reason why Kent’s the one who gives the answers, and not the one who asks for them. 

“Kenny,” Eric says, the first time he’s called him that since the botched proposal, “are you happy?”

“Yeah, of course, I am,” Kent says with no hesitation whatsoever, smiling softly. “I’m happy, Eric.”

(He’s not lying—he’s not. He’s happy here. He’s happy now.

It doesn’t matter that this won’t be true tomorrow.)

Eric looks at him carefully, then nods. “Okay. That’s good, honey, I’m glad.” He turns onto his back, reaching out a hand and shutting off his lamp. “Good night, Kenny,” he says.

“Night, Eric,” Kent answers, and lays there in the dark, listening to the sound of Eric’s breathing evening out in his sleep, and trying not to wish he was right here beside him, the way he’s been every night since he’s gotten here.

It’s not his place.

 

\---

 

Pager meets him at the café fifteen minutes early, the Cup carried carefully in his arms, Richards trailing after him like the most chill of bodyguards.

“Hey, Cap!” Pager says, smiling widely. “What’s up, Chowder?”

“Hey, man,” Kent says, pulling his favorite rookie in for a hug, and holding the Cup as Chow and Pager exchange high-fives and do the dorky rookie handshake that’s been passed down from one generation of Aces’ rookies to the next in a grand tradition dating back to when the franchise first started. Which was back in 2005, but fuck it, a tradition’s tradition, no matter how new, and he doesn’t want to hear a _word_ about the Original Six. West Conference, best conference, yo.

“Nice to see you, too, Ms. Parson, and, uh, Ms. Parson’s guest,” Pager says, holding his hand out politely for a handshake.

“Wow, I’m glad to see your manners managed to survive under this monkey’s regime,” Carrie says dryly, jerking her chin at Kent and _unfairly_ throwing him under the bus. If anybody was going to ruin anybody else’s manners, it would be Gopher and Carrie _knows_ it. “Please, call me Carrie, and this is my girlfriend, Caitlin.”

Pager and Caitlin shake hands, and then Pager looks over at Chowder and says, “So I guess Mags is winning the bet, huh?”

“Hey!” Kent protests, and pretends to be insulted when everybody breaks into laughter.

“So, uh,” Kent says afterwards, “I’ll just take this into the back so I can put the pie in it, and then we’ll—we’ll get this proposal on the road, huh?”

“Sure thing, Cap,” Pager says.

Kent fidgets there a little longer. “Um. Thank you,” he says. “It means a lot, that you’d do this for me.”

“Cap, of course,” Pager says.

“Any one of us would do it,” Chowder says loyally.

Damn it, Kent is totally going to fucking lose it. “You guys are the best,” he says, and he ducks out of there before he can make a further fool of himself.

Eric is waiting in the kitchen for him. “I got the supplies,” he says, gesturing to the assorted knives and lighters and collection of tarnish-causing foods he’s assembled.

“Okay,” Kent says. “Let’s do this thing.” He grabs the lighter.

They hear a shout: “Pager! I told you wait, man!” Chowder yells.

Not three seconds later, the door opens. “Yo, Cap, you forgot the ri—what the hell!” Pager shouts.

“Sorry, Cap, I tried to stop him!” Chowder says, grabbing Pager’s arm. As they start to grapple, Chowder points to the exit. “Go, guys, go!”

Eric and Kent exchange a glance, grab the Stanley Cup, and make a run for it.

 

\---

 

They don’t get very far, unfortunately.

“What the hell were you boys thinking?” Mrs. Pagett asks them, having successfully corralled them with her Satan-granted minivan driving skills. Kent just _knows_ there’s a conspiracy that he’s not part of, there’s no way people can drive this well otherwise. “Playing some kind of prank—on _Jeremiah’s_ Cup Day, no less.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Pagett,” Kent mumbles, feeling all of three years old.

“Mrs. Pagett, you don’t understand,” Eric says, not apologetic in the least. “The Stanley Cup is a dangerous artifact. Honestly, we were doing Jeremiah a favor, keeping it out of his hands.”

“Have you lost your goddamn minds?” Mrs. Pagett demands, staring them down despite maxing out at 5’1”.

“Ma’am, I know it sounds crazy, but Kent is missing,” Eric declares.

Mrs. Pagett turns to look incredulously at Kent; Kent stares back like a deer caught in the headlights. “Um,” he says. “I’m from an alternate universe.”

Carrie smacks her forehead, Chowder groans, Caitlin winces, and Pager says, disbelievingly, “Say what now?”

It’s Richards’ reaction that’s the most interesting, though. He turns white as plaster and says, “Oh, damn, it’s done it again.”

Kent blinks.

Eric says, quietly, “Excuse me?”

 

\---

 

Okay, look, attempting to punch out the Keeper of the Cup for neglecting to reveal to unsuspecting innocent bystanders that the Stanley Cup is a quasi-conscious, reality-warping artifact with a surprising range of paranormal powers and supernatural effects is a totally legitimate reaction, and nobody blames Eric at all.

“How could you let this happen?!” Eric shouts.

“We don’t _let_ this happen—the Cup just chooses on its own!” Richards argues from his place of safety behind Mrs. Pagett.

“Then why the hell didn’t you warn us?” Eric yells. “Kenny’s won the Stanley Cup three times, two of those times as captain! He’s broken about ten records! He’s the best player in the NHL today! Everybody knows he’s one of the greats! You didn’t think, ‘Gee, maybe we’d better let him know that weird things happen sometimes, especially to players like him’? Y’all couldn’t use your brains for one second and think ahead, huh? Y’all just pass this—this stupid phallic symbol around and tell people only _after_ it ruins their lives?”

“It’s not usually this bad,” Richards protests.

“But I’m not one of the greats,” Kent says at the same time, “so they wouldn’t have thought to warn me.”

Everybody just turns to look at him incredulously.

Eric swings back to Richards, his lips pressed together in an angry line. “I’m just going to ignore that,” he says, “because right now my boyfriend is stuck in an alternate universe, without a clue of how to get home, thinking God knows what, so _you_ —” He jabs a finger in Richards’ direction. “—had better start giving me some answers.”

“Look, this is all highly irregular,” Richards says. “I’m already breaking about nine different protocols by letting Mr. Parson tell this many people—”

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you let the Stanley Cup kidnap my boyfriend!” Eric yells. “He’s got family, he’s got friends, he’s the captain of the Las Vegas Aces, for Christ’s sake! People will notice he’s gone, so we will damn well tell as many people as we need to in order to get him back here! Now, start talkin’ before I lose what’s left of my fuckin’ patience.” He takes a deep breath and turns to Mrs. Pagett, saying, “Please pardon my language, ma’am.”

“No offense taken, sweetheart,” she assures him.

Eric glances back at Richards and raises a single brow pointedly.

“Well,” Richards says, “he probably made a wish.”

“We got that, thanks,” Eric says, sickly sweet, and, oooh, that’s not a good sign. Carrie, Chowder, Pager, and Kent all wince simultaneously.

Richards clears his throat. “Ergo, once his wish is fulfilled, he and the Mr. Parson currently inhabiting his place should switch back automatically.”

“But what the hell could he have wished for?” Eric says, back to being disgruntled, and a lightbulb goes off in Kent’s head.

“Oh,” he says, “I know what it is.”

Everyone turns to look at him.

Kent flushes. This was going to be awkward. “Um. Could everybody else clear the room for a second?”

 

\---

 

“So you think you know what he wished for?” Eric asks once everybody’s left.

Kent nods. “He _is_ me, you know. Got better taste in men, maybe, but still me.”

Eric cracks a small smile and Kent ignores how it’s cracking open his heart. “Smooth-talker,” he says fondly.

“Only for you,” Kent quips back, then clears his throat. “Anyway—in my time here, practically every single person has mentioned this one thing he’s tried to do that he’s completely failed at. Like, _every_ person, okay? I’m not exaggerating. Even the regulars at Little Slice of Heaven know.”

Eric quirks a brow. “And somehow I have managed not to notice this thing he wanted?”

“Well,” Kent says, smiling crookedly, “that’s probably because you were working on it on your own end.” He pauses. “Plus you never do the damn laundry, so you never would’ve encountered the evidence.”

Eric raises his other brow. “This better not be a sex thing,” he says. “Half our friends are just downstairs.”

“Wha—no, it’s not a sex thing! It’s—oh, fuck, lemme just do this already,” Kent says, and he gets on one knee.

Eric’s eyes go wide. “Oh,” he says.

“Eric Richard Bittle,” Kent says, taking his hand, “I don’t have a ring on me, because I think it’s still with Pager, but I don’t need one to know that my other-self is completely and totally gone on you. You are the most important thing in his life—more important than any ring, or any trophy, even the Stanley Cup. Everywhere I turn, you’re front and center—you’re in every nook and cranny of his house. You’re in every photo that he takes. You’re the person that he schedules his off-season around. You’re a member of every family that he’s gathered for himself. Even people who should be complete strangers can tell that he’s in love with you. He loves you so much that he lets you be a complete clothes-gremlin, he does the laundry _and_ the dishes, and he’s even let you supersede him in his cats’ affection. Hell, he’s let you supersede him in _Carrie’s_ affection. Now, if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Kent takes a deep breath and doesn’t mention the tears slowly tracking down Eric’s face.

“Eric,” he asks, “on my other-self’s behalf, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Eric says.

They stare at each other quietly. A minute passes. Two. Five. Then more.

Ten minutes later, Eric pulls his hands from his and covers his face. “Oh, God,” he says, sobbing quietly, “oh, God, it’s not working.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Kent says, confused. “I was sure that was it. I was _sure_.”

“What are we going to do?” Eric whispers.

Kent stands up and squares his shoulders. “We’re going to talk to Richards again.”

 

\---

 

“Well, it’s probably because _your_ wish hasn’t been granted,” Richards points out.

Kent scowls, because that’s just stupid. His wish has been granted from day fucking one, the second Eric smiled at him and called him “sugar.” He’s pretty sure it’s going to be impossible to make anybody else sound that in love with him, especially in this universe. “Believe me, it’s been granted—and, no, it’s none of your fucking business what it is, so butt out,” he tells Richards when the guy opens his mouth.

Richards scowls. “I meant to say that that’s because your wish hasn’t been granted in _your_ universe.”

Kent thunks his head against the table.

“Well, how is _our_ Cap supposed to fulfill _his_ wish, huh?” Pager demands, gesturing at Kent and asking the real questions.  

“This _does_ seem unnecessarily complicated,” Caitlin adds.

Richards rubs his forehead. “Look, I don’t know how this works much better than you do. All I know is that the Stanley Cup wants you to be happy, and it thought this was the best way to achieve that.”

“Kenny _was_ happy,” Eric says in protest.

Richards shakes his head, rueful. “Obviously not completely happy, otherwise this wouldn’t have occurred.”

Kent feels a pit of guilt open up in his stomach. Shit. This is _his_ fault, isn’t it?

Eric narrows his eyes and grabs Kent’s hand. “Well, maybe the Stanley Cup ought to mind its own business, huh?”

Richards looks away.

“Look,” Carrie asks, “you said this doesn’t happen often, but has it happened before?”

Richards hesitates. “Well,” he says slowly, “to one other person still alive, but I’m not really at liberty to say whom—”

Chowder cracks his knuckles.

Richards looks at him.

“Oh! Sorry, that wasn’t meant to be threatening,” Chowder says brightly. “My hands just ached, you know?” He cracks them again. “Doesn’t this happen to you, too, Pager?”

Pager punches a fist against his open hand. “Yup.”

Mrs. Pagett shakes her head. “Boys,” she says, “don’t be rude. I’m sure Mr. Richards is a fine, upstanding man who will help us out of the goodness of his heart.” She pauses. “Especially since the Stanley Cup is still resting in the back of my minivan.” She leans forward, her hair a dark, wide halo around her head, the most quietly terrifying avenging angel Kent has ever seen. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, now, would we?”

Richards closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s Bob Zimmermann,” he says.

Kent takes his snapback off and runs a hand through his hair. “Of course it’s Bad Bob,” he says sourly. “Of course it is.”

 

\---

 

Kent calls Zimms.

“You have Zimms’ number?” Carrie asks, incredulous. It’s just her, Caitlin, and Chowder with him and Eric now. He told Pager to take the Cup and enjoy his day, and they’d call him if they needed him again.

(“Sure thing, Cap,” Pager said, though his rookie had eyed the trophy gingerly where it was resting in the seat next to him. Kent didn’t blame him.

“Be careful, man,” he said, and they bumped fists in solidarity.

“Unto the breach,” Chowder intoned as Pager and his mom drove away.)

“Uh, yeah?” Kent says, a little confused. “We’ve been talking. We’re friends.”

Carrie looks at Eric, who scowls at his feet. “Friends, huh?” Carrie murmurs to Kent, keeping her voice low like she’s sharing a secret, and right—most people don’t know that he and Zimms were a thing here. “That’s a new development.”

“Not really?” Kent says, furrowing his brow.

“Maybe not to you,” Carrie says, “but our Kenny hasn’t had a friendly conversation with Zimms since the summer of 2009.”

Kent stares at her, shocked speechless.

Of course, that’s the moment that Zimms picks up.

“Parse,” his favorite voice says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “What’s up?”

“Eh, nothing much, man,” Kent says automatically.

Eric stares incredulously at him, and Kent clears his throat. “Um. I mean. Well—ugh.”

“Just spit it out, Parse,” Jack says, relishing their obvious role reversal a little too much.

Kent rolls his eyes. “I need your dad’s number. Got a question to ask him,” he says.

“Oh,” Jack says, surprised. “But I thought you had it?”

“I have the house number, but I thought he and your mom were vacationing somewhere with the Gretzkys, yeah?”

“Going golfing in Florida isn’t exactly vacationing, Parse,” Zimms says, “not when they own property there.”

“Uh, excuse me, but it totally _is_ vacationing, you spoiled, silver-spoon-sucking one-percenter,” Kent says, as obnoxiously as he can, pleased when Jack chuckles. “Anyway, just give me the number, yeah?”

“Ah, yeah, just gimme a second, ’kay?” Jack says.

Kent diligently writes it down when Jack dictates it to him, repeating it to make sure he’s got it right. “Okay, man, thanks,” he says.

“Talk to you later?” Jack says, a cautiously hopeful note in his voice.

Kent looks at Eric’s carefully blank expression. “Sure, man,” he says, as casually as he can. “Talk to you later.”

They hang up.

“Well, aren’t you two friendly,” Eric says.

“Well…we are friends,” Kent says, unwilling to apologize for one of the proudest achievements of his life—namely, being friends with Jack Zimmermann again—but also unwilling to leave Eric looking hurt and betrayed.

He’s not sure what to do about it, though. He wasn’t even the one who started communicating with Jack again—that was his alternate-self, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

“Awkward,” Chowder whispers to Caitlin and Carrie.

Eric just crosses his arms and looks away.

 

\---

 

The conversation with Bad Bob is somehow not the most awkward conversation he’s had with the man, although it _is_ the strangest, which says a lot about Bad Bob, honestly.

“Hi, Dad Bob,” Kent says.

“Kent!” Bob Zimmermann says. “Good to hear from you, son! Jack’s told me you’ve been in contact with him recently.”

“Uh, yeah—”

“Alicia’s been meaning to invite you to his surprise party—be on the look-out for a call from her, or a guy named Shitty—”

Ah, yes, the infamous Shitty. Kent ignores that and tries to get the conversation back on track. “Sure thing, Dad Bob, but—”

“Don’t worry about bringing your boyfriend, I’m sure it’ll be fine—”

“Yeah, see, about that—”

“It’ll be in about a week’s time, I’m sure you remember the date, yes?”

“Yeah, of course—”

“Good! So we’ll see you there, then?”

“Uh, well—”

“Kent, son, I know you and Jack have had your differences, but you know we always—”

“DAD BOB, THE STANLEY CUP SENT ME TO AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE.”

Silence on the other end. Then, in a voice that somehow mingles shock, annoyance, _and_ resignation, Bad Bob mutters, “That fucker.”

Kent slumps against Carrie’s coffee table. “Tell me about it,” he says, aggrieved.

Bad Bob sighs. “When did this happen?”

“Three weeks and two days ago,” Kent says. “Day after my Cup Day.”

“That sounds like the bastard’s M.O., alright,” Bad Bob says, then pauses. “Wait a minute.”

Kent straightens up in alarm. “What?”

“Shit, you’re not the Kent from this universe, are you? You’re the switch?” Bob asks.

“Uh, yeah?”

Bob sighs again. “Then you’re the one Jack’s been talking to. Not our Kent.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

More silence. “So Jack still hasn’t made amends with the other you.”

“I…guess not?” Kent says, feeling guilty all over again. Fuck, he really wishes he could stop hurting the people in this universe left and right. “But, uh, if it’s any consolation, in _my_ universe, Jack and I—”

“Crisse, you’re still together?” Bad Bob interrupts.

“No! We’re just friends! Jesus, why do people always ask me that, huh?” Kent gripes. It’s starting to give ‘Have you asked him to marry you yet?’ serious competition in the most annoying question category.

“Sorry,” Bad Bob says, sheepish.

“Anyway,” Kent says through gritted teeth, rubbing the back of his neck, “could you help a guy out? You've been through this before, yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I also got turned into a penguin, but—”

“ _What the fuck_.”

 

\---

 

“Okay,” Kent says after he hangs up the phone. God, those were some of the most harrowing minutes of his life, and that was a fact. “We’re going to need a mirror and a piece of the Stanley Cup.”

“Let me do the honors,” Eric says, standing up.

 

\---

 

Despite Richards’ initial reluctance, they manage to slice a teeny tiny sliver off of the Cup, Eric taking a knife to it while Kent and Chowder stand next to Pager and pose for about a million pictures with the wide-eyed kids at Pager’s home rink. Kent doesn’t mind—he loves kids, and it’s nice to see everybody just as awestruck of Pager as they are of him. Even moreso, in some cases.

“You think I could make it?” a ten-year-old black boy asks, staring up at Pager’s head of natural hair, a match to his own.

“’Course, kid,” Pager says. “Not gonna lie, it’s gonna be tough as hell, but it’s worth it if you love the game.”

“I love it,” the kid says fervently.

“Then you can make it,” Pager says, simple as that.

Kent nudges his elbow. “That’s my rookie,” he says quietly, and Chowder claps Pager’s shoulder on his other side.

Pager smiles, bashful. “Thanks, guys.”

 

\---

 

They go back to the hotel room to conduct—well, to conduct the ritual. There’s no other word for it, not unless you want to go with “spell.” Bob’s alternate-self apparently learned it from a friend of a friend of Alicia Zimmermann's who happened to be a weather witch of some sort, with a specialty in ice magic.

(“What the fuck,” Kent said.

“Look, when you’re in an alternate universe, you ought to just accept that the world is a lot weirder than you initially thought, son,” Bob pointed out reasonably.)

It’s just Eric and Kent now, Carrie and the C’s (their moniker, not his) on call should they need them.

“Well,” Kent says, setting out a candle, a tray of ice cubes, a lock of his hair, and the sliver of the Stanley Cup in front of the wide, brightly-lit mirror in their hotel bathroom. He picks up the last item: a silver needle, bought from an antique store. “You ready?” he asks.

“Yes, sugar,” Eric replies.

Kent picks up the needle and pricks his left ring finger, hissing slightly at the sting. He lets a drop of blood fall onto the lock of hair, one of the ice cubes, and the sliver. He nods at Eric, who lights the candle.

They wait.

“Fuck,” Eric says after a minute passes, his shoulders starting to shake. “How many things do we have to—”

“Wait,” Kent says, reaching out to grasp his arm, his gaze caught on his own reflection. “Wait, look.”

Eric looks up, eyes wide, as the image in the mirror shifts and warps to reveal—

“Kenny!” Eric cries out.

 

\---

 

Kent looks into the mirror and sees himself, but it’s not his reflection. For one thing, the background isn’t a shiny hotel room shower stall and tub set. For another, the Kent in the mirror isn’t alone. He’s got an Eric Richard Bittle standing next to him, same as this Kent, the one with a bloody finger and a needle in his hand, the one who’s leapt through hoops this whole day to try and switch them back—  

But the Kent in the mirror has another person beside him, too.

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent says, touching the mirror—the window, really, one that showed the world he called home, Zimms’ apartment coming into focus the longer he looked—relieved laughter bubbling up through his throat, speaking to a shocked Jack Laurent Zimmermann. “Didja miss me?”

 

\--- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is _yet again_ longer than the last. Yes, the chapter count has _also_ increased once more. Yes, this author spent this week glued to her computer, crying tears of blood as she typed one word at a time, not even entirely for this story.
> 
> Holy cow, somebody stop me, I AM WRITING TOO MUCH. 
> 
> Ahem. Anyway, I would like to thank gutsybitsies for her supremely awesome beta skills; all the members of the OMGCP NaNo Discord group for running a million writing sprints with me and encouraging me as I crawled towards the finish line; Julorean, for all her cute inspirational links; my sister, who lets me torture her before I torture all of you, and spent this chapter going, "THIS BOY," any time Kent Parson opened his mouth; and anybody who's read this story, especially if you left a kudos or a comment. _Especially_ if you left a comment, and **_especially_** if that comment included capslock, crying, or your favorite part. You guys make my day, my week, my month. :D
> 
> Come scream with me about THESE BOYS on [tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/)! :D


	7. i envy light that wakes him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Morning, man,” Kent says, pushing down everything he can’t find the words to express. Ben, his therapist, wouldn’t approve, but Kent’s got bigger things to worry about. How to get home, for instance. How to get over Jack Zimmermann—wait, no, how to help his _other_ self get over Jack Zimmermann, so _he_ can get home to Eric.
> 
> Right. Priorities. He can do this, no problem. Just—be friendly. Be cool. Treat Jack like he would a brother. Easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so _this_ week had the 12K chapter. Go figure. ^^
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Um. Just brace yourselves, folks. The side of Kent Parson that showed up at the Epikegster makes his appearance, and it isn't pretty. Also, references to the canon overdose. Also, more crying. Beyond that, I think we're good. Let me know if I need to warn for anything else!
> 
> Thanks as always to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for being an awesome, awesome beta. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/I_envy_Seas,_whereon_He_rides_%E2%80%94). ^^

\---

 

 _I envy Light — that wakes Him —_  
_And Bells — that boldly ring_  
_To tell Him it is Noon, abroad —_  
_Myself — be Noon to Him —_

 

\---

 

Kent Parson lies there in the dark and thinks that he should have bought noise-cancelling headphones. Just dropped three-fifty on the most expensive pair or something, because then he wouldn’t have to listen to his ex making out with his boyfriend. He wouldn’t have to listen to his ex _making love_ to his boyfriend.

Kent grits his teeth as more noise echoes faintly through the guest room. Eric’s quiet gasp is answered by Jack’s low moan, the sounds of them muffled through the walls, yes, but it’s still too much. Anything would be too much, too raw, and Kent lies face-down on his bed and groans, not bothering to lift his head from where he’s buried it beneath the pillows. Just his luck that he woke up for this—he’s been going to bed early on purpose to avoid it, and was pretty damn successful until tonight.

Kent ups the volume on his earphones and lets the bassline drown them out until it’s over, and he can finally think again. Not that his thoughts are much better company, honestly—these past six days have been _torture_. Just— _torture_ , he tells you, torture.

Eric is so…fucking in love with Jack. Like, fucking hell, Jack has _everything_ that Kent wants and misses and _needs_ , and it fucking _hurts_. It hurts to watch Eric pour all his love and affection and warmth over Jack, and to see Jack soak it up like he’s starving for it. Except he can’t really find it in him to hate Jack—okay, no, he hates Jack, but he’s also aware that he shouldn’t. Kent watches him with Eric—with Bitty—and Jack is so caring. So happy, so stable and good, returning the love he’s shown with the ease of long, familiar practice. There’s none of the hiding, the shame, the fear that tinged his relation—that tinged whatever the hell it was he had with Kent.

Jack places his arms around Bitty’s waist and bends down to kiss the nape of his neck, everything about him open and sweet and so in love, and Kent wants to scream.

 _He’s mine_ , he wants to yell.

 _Why do you get to have him?_ he wants to shout.

(And deep, deep down: _Why couldn’t you have been like that with me?_ he wants to ask, plaintive and hurting.

Kent needs to leave. He needs to be gone, ten hours on the road and the image of what it looks like when Jack Zimmermann is _really_ in love with someone far, far behind him.)

 

\---

 

The next morning, Kent shuffles blearily into the kitchen, and Jack is there waiting for him.

“G’morning,” Jack murmurs with a small, soft smile, and Kent’s gut twists in response. He’s still not used to it. Can he ever be used to this again? How the fuck does other-Kent manage not to weep each time he sees Jack’s face?

This. This is the other reason why this whole visit’s been torture: Jack Zimmermann, looking at him like he’s glad to see him. Like he makes his day a little brighter just by being there.

(Kent remembers that look, _misses_ that look, even when he doesn’t want to.

 _Not your Jack, not your Jack, not your Jack_ , he reminds himself. _You’re not even the one that smile is meant for. This’ll be over soon, and you’ll be back where you belong, and this? This will only be a memory, just like all the rest._ )

“Morning, man,” he says, pushing down everything he can’t find the words to express. Ben, his therapist, wouldn’t approve, but Kent’s got bigger things to worry about. How to get home, for instance. How to get over Jack Zimmermann—wait, no, how to help his _other_ self get over Jack Zimmermann, so _he_ can get home to Eric.

Right. Priorities. He can do this, no problem. Just—be friendly. Be cool. Treat Jack like he would a brother. Easy. No sweat. Right?

Right.

Jack pours a mug of coffee, steaming hot, and adds a shit-ton of creamer and three heaping spoonfuls of sugar to it, stirring carefully. Kent leans against the counter and chirps, “Developed a sweet tooth, huh? If your sixteen-year-old self could see you now.”

There—he’s got this, see?

Jack ducks his head, still smiling. “Yeah, he’d be horrified, considering all the pie I eat,” he admits, shrugging. “But, uh, I still like my coffee black, actually.”

Kent raises his brow skeptically. “Then why—”

Jack reaches over and wordlessly places the mug by Kent’s hip, his shoulder brushing against Kent’s, his wrist grazing Kent’s side. Kent snaps his mouth shut.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, staring at the coffee, made just the way he likes it.

“Oh,” he says out loud.

“The proper response is ‘thank you,’” Jack chirps dryly, turning back to the coffee-maker and fixing his own cup, but Kent still catches a glimpse of his pleased grin.

“You ass,” Kent shoots back, a beat late. He clears his throat, saying, “Like you can even claim to have better manners. You didn’t even know thank you notes were a thing.” It’s weak as far as chirps go, but Jack laughs regardless and nudges him with his hip. Kent jostles him back and pretends that everything’s fine, everything’s good, he’s not totally dying on the inside.

Kent distracts himself by picking up the mug and lifting it to his lips. He takes a sip; it’s perfect. Kent can feel his face do a thing and takes another, bigger gulp; it burns his tongue and slides down his throat, and he tells himself that that’s the reason for the stinging of his eyes.

Jack finishes making his mug and settles calmly beside Kent, their shoulders touching, the two of them existing in the same space.

Kent doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move away, either.

 _I’m so, so fucked_ , he thinks.

 

\---

 

Eric—no, _Bitty_ wanders into the kitchen a few hours later, glaring at the sunshine streaming in through the periwinkle-blue curtains like it’s personally persecuting him. Kent hides his smile behind the wedding section of last Sunday’s paper, which Jack still gets delivered to his apartment like a fucking dweeb. He’s not surprised that Bitty hates mornings, too; Eric always makes a beeline straight for Kent, buries his face against his neck like Kent could hide him from the sunli—

Bitty goes straight to Jack and buries his face against his chest, and Jack’s arms come up automatically to wrap around him. Kent trains his eyes back on the newspaper and ignores the murmured exchange of good mornings, engrossing himself with the description of Selena Garcia’s wedding to Antonia di Anatole.

He’s so engrossed, in fact, that he completely misses Bitty addressing him, at least until Bitty clears his throat and repeats himself.

“I said, _good morning_ , Parse,” Bitty says, looking at him from the circle of Jack’s arms, where he’s leaning back against Jack’s chest.

“Uh,” Kent splutters eloquently, “good morning.”

Bitty smirks at him, a slight slant to it that Kent’s got to be imagining, because that’s the slant that means he’s feeling flirty, and there’s no way in hell that that smirk would ever be aimed at Kent. Bitty _hates_ Kent’s other-self, or at least barely tolerates his presence. Kent’s gone over enough of their Twitter exchanges and their texts to know that he is Person Number One on Bitty’s theoretical hit-list, coming even before Tommy Greene of the Food Network, which is saying something. Not that Kent can blame him; Eric’s possessive at the best of times, if not _exactly_ the jealous type—there’s only one of Kent’s exes that he despises, and that’s Zimms. Now that Bitty’s with Jack, the tables are turned, and Kent’s the one on the outs.

Or, well, he _was_. Kent—this Kent, the Kent Parson who belongs with Eric Bittle—can’t treat Bitty with anything except teasing affection, can’t look at him without thinking, _God, how I love you_. He’s had to stop himself a hundred times from responding to Bitty’s fond _honey_ ’s and _sweetheart_ ’s meant for Jack’s ears, had to bite back a thousand of his own automatic _baby_ ’s and _darling_ ’s. He’s been successful at that, at least, but he knows he’s probably a lot nicer to Bitty than alternate-Kent ever was, and Bitty’s the polite sort. He won’t answer Kent’s kindness with scorn, can’t keep up his annoyance when Kent’s being so earnest.

Kent should probably feel guiltier, flirting with Jack’s boyfriend, but fuck it, it’s not as if anything’s going to come of it.

Right?

Except Bitty’s hand keeps brushing his when they sit at the table for breakfast together. Except Jack keeps deliberately entering his space when they work out. Except the two of them sit him between themselves on the couch that afternoon, Jack’s knee touching his, Bitty leaning comfortably against his side.

Kent…is confused.

“Okay,” he says, once _You’ve Got Mail_ ’s credits start rolling. “What is going on?”

Bitty looks at him, all innocence, but Kent knows that face better than he knows his own; he _knows_ when Bitty’s putting up a front. “What’s that, honey?”

Kent swallows, looks at Jack. Jack’s looking back, his eyes strangely intent, and—okay, maybe that was a bad idea. Kent snaps his head back towards Bitty, who’s observing him curiously, waiting. For what, Kent can’t figure out.

“Um,” he says, licking his lips. Bitty’s eyes track the movement, and Kent’s heart-rate picks up.

 _You idiot, you’re imagining things_ , he tells himself sternly. “You guys have been—” _Flirty. Way too affectionate. Really fucking touchy-feely._ All of these things are true, but Kent settles on “—weird. Today.”

Bitty tilts his head, drawing Kent’s eye to the line of his neck. “You think so?”

 _I know so_ , Kent thinks. He can’t quite manage to say it, so he simply nods instead.

Bitty meets Jack’s gaze over Kent’s shoulder. Whatever he sees makes him smile, and Kent’s stomach settles. If Bitty’s fine, then he’s fine—really, he was probably just reading everything wrong. They probably don’t mean anything by it. He’s just overthinking things like usual—

Bitty slides his hand around Kent’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss.

Kent has barely enough time to think, _What the fuck?!_ before Bitty’s tongue delicately touches the corner of his lips—and that’s it, that’s all. Eric Bittle is kissing him, and Kent Parson opens up, bending down to meet his sweet, greedy mouth with an aching moan, all the pent-up longing and lust rising in him like a flood, overwhelming everything, everything. Kent grasps Eric’s hips and pulls him into his lap on instinct, swallowing his gasp of surprise and giving back as good as he’s getting, using every trick in the book to make Eric want Kent as much as Kent wants him: licking into his mouth, grinding up filthy and shameless into the vee of his hips, groaning in encouragement when Eric grasps his hair and pulls _hard_ —

—except those aren’t Eric’s fingers in his hair, tugging him away from Eric’s mouth.

They’re Jack’s.

Jack, who’s sitting right beside Kent as he fucking _makes out_ with his _boyfriend_ , with _Bitty_ , what the ever-living fuck, what the hell is he _thinking?_

“Holy shit,” Kent gasps, trembling all over from the sudden rush of fear and shock and guilt. “Holy shit, Eric, fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—shit, Zimms, you know I would never—never—”

Eric—no, _Bitty_ strokes a reassuring hand down his side. “S’okay, Parse,” he says soothingly. “Jack doesn’t mind, does he? He was just a little jealous.”

“Huh?” Kent says, flabbergasted, because those last two statements don’t make any sense in conjunction _at all_. Like, of course Jack’s jealous—who wouldn’t be? Kent just kissed his boyfriend like he had a right to, of course he’s going to _mind_ , holy fuck, Jack’s going to punch him out any second now—

Jack’s laugh is a low rumble in his ear, and Kent shivers. “Well, who wouldn’t be?” Jack says, echoing Kent’s thoughts, the way he used to when they were seventeen, but they’re not seventeen anymore and Kent shouldn’t still be affected like this. It’s been years, he’s over him, he’s _over_ him. “You keep hogging him.”

 _Wait, what?_ Kent thinks, and then stops thinking altogether, because Jack Zimmermann uses the hand he’s got in Kent’s hair to pull him back and reel him in. His other hand comes up to cup Kent’s jaw tenderly, and he plants his mouth over Kent’s like he’s coming home, sure and slow and careful. He—he kisses Kent like it’s a good day, like it’s one of his best days, like one of the days after they just won a game in the Q and had Kent’s billet-house to themselves, no fear, no urgency, no anything except each other. Jack kisses like he wants to take his time with it, methodical, savoring every single moment, his big, warm palm cupping the side of Kent’s face, his thumb smoothing over Kent’s cheekbone as if he’s touching something precious.

Kent, God help him, kisses him back.

“Kenny,” Jack murmurs after—after a minute? An hour? A day? Kent honestly hasn’t a clue at that point, his mind too blank and his heart too full. “Kenny, I’ve missed you.”

Kent’s eyes snap open in time to see Jack leaning in for another kiss.

“No,” he says, shaking, falling apart, _remembering_. Jack’s never said that to him, _never_ , this isn’t his Jack and this isn’t his Eric and this isn’t anything he fucking wants—

(It’s everything he wants.)

“No,” he says, and Kent Parson shoves Jack away, pushes Bitty off of his lap, and stands up on wobbly legs. He can’t quite walk just yet, takes one step back before his knees give up on him, and he has to sit down on the coffee table and put his head in his hands, breathing in gasping lungfuls of air.

“Parson, what the hell?” Bitty demands, his mouth open in affronted shock, and Kent wants to laugh bitterly and say that that’s _his_ line.

“I can’t,” he says instead, still trembling, his hands shaking, and, oh, God, oh, God, he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be home, he wants Eric back, he—

Jack puts a hand on his shoulder and Kent snaps, slaps it away like he’s been burned. “Don’t touch me!” he shouts, his voice breaking.

Jack pulls back immediately, worry and hurt warring on his face. “Kenny?” he says, his big, blue eyes going sad and droopy, and how dare he make that face at Kent? How dare he look at him that way? After everything he did, after everything he’s _doing_ —

“Don’t call me that,” Kent begs, putting his hands over his face. “Don’t—don’t call me that.”

Jack goes silent, and Kent concentrates on breathing.

“I’m sorry, Parse,” Bitty says, careful and precise, and Kent can hear him choosing each word as he says it, and Kent wants to cry as a result. “We thought— _I_ thought you wanted this.”

“I don’t!” Kent lies. “I—I can’t, I have a _boyfriend_ , I—”

“I thought you broke up with him,” Bitty says, confused.

“No!” Kent says, putting his hands down. “No, I would never, I _love_ him, I—”

Bitty looks at him with Eric’s face, eyes wide and hurt. “I’m sorry, Parse,” he says. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I’d known.” He laughs ruefully. “Oh, God, I fucked this all up. What was I even thinking, thinking you wanted me that way.”

Kent, because he’s an idiot who can’t ever let Eric Bittle feel sad, even when it would be better for him to do so, opens his mouth and says, “I do! Of course I do, I love you!”

 _You. Fucking. Idiot_ , his common sense points out, completely accurately and completely despairingly.

Kent can’t quite bring himself to disagree.

Bitty’s mouth drops open, and Jack barks out a dry laugh. “You owe me twenty bucks,” Jack says, something aching and fragile in his voice. He looks at Kent, his eyes vulnerable. “It was me, wasn’t it? I’m the one you don’t want.”

Kent’s hands ball up into fists on his thighs, and Jack glances at them, his face falling a second later.

“It’s okay, Parse,” he says, his voice carefully even. “I get it.”

“No,” Kent says, “you don’t—”

“I’m fine with it if you just want Bitty,” Jack says again, flooring Kent for the second time in as many minutes.

“What the fuck?” Kent bursts out at the same time as Bitty does.

“Honey,” Bitty says, placing his hand over Jack’s, “I said we were a package deal, didn’t I?”

“What the fuck?” Kent repeats, because they talked about this? This was _planned?_ They—they, what, they set out to seduce Kent _on purpose?_ What the ever-living fuck, what the hell kind of alternate universe has he stumbled into? This is _insane._

Jack ignores him, addressing Bitty. “Bittle, I’ll be fine. I meant what I said—I want the two of you to be happy.”

“Not without you, mister,” Bitty says, anger thickening his accent. “And look, Parse isn’t even available, is he?”

“I’m not,” Kent says truthfully. Ain’t no way he’s cheating on Eric, not even with Bitty, and he’s sure as hell not cheating on him with _Jack_. Eric would kill him. 

Jack narrows his eyes at him. “You’re lying,” he says.

“What the fuck?” Kent says, laughing caustically. “I’m _not_ , Jack, I’ve got—”

“An idiot ex-boyfriend who dumped you,” Jack says persistently, and Kent loses it.

“Eric didn’t dump me!” he shouts, getting to his feet. “I got sent to an alternate universe, okay? He didn’t break up with me, he would _never_ , he loves me, and I’m fucking going back home to him if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

Jack and Bitty look up at him with matching expressions of shock and disbelief.

“I’m sorry, what now?” Bitty says blankly. “You—you’re from an alternate universe?”

Kent’s snaps his mouth closed so hard his teeth clack. “Shit,” he says. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

Bitty raises skeptical brows at him. “Parse, honestly, I’m glad you did, if you’re thinking something as—as _far-fetched_ as this,” he says diplomatically. He pauses. “Have you…hit your head recently? Taken—taken drugs?” He squeezes Jack’s hand reassuringly, and, oh, fuck, Jack is staring at Kent with big, scared eyes.

“No!” Kent snarls. “That’s not it, I’ve been—”

Eric points out, “Parse, you just said that you’ve been traveling to an alternate universe where you have a boyfriend. Surely you can see where we’d be a little worried—”

“I’m not traveling to an alternate universe, I’m _from_ an alternate universe! _This_ is the alternate universe, and in _my_ universe I have a boyfriend, and he’s you!”

The living room goes silent.

Then it’s Jack’s turn to say, “Wait, what?”

Kent tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s the Stanley Cup’s fault. I made this stupid wish, and it switched me with the Kent from _this_ universe—the _other_ Kent Parson. Right now, he’s probably at my house, where I live with _my_ boyfriend, Eric Richard Bittle.”

Bitty chuckles, disbelieving. “Okay, Parse, clearly you’re not a hundred percent—”

“Your first crush was on Max Cooper in the fifth grade. Your favorite color’s baby blue. Your first memory is making a rhubarb pie with your mother and Moo Maw. You’ve got a scar on your right knee from where you tripped and fell on a field trip in seventh grade. You’ve got a birthmark on the back of your left thigh—five moles shaped in a circle. ‘Crazy in Love’ is the first song by Beyoncé that really made you love her, the one you wanted to choreograph a routine to, but Katya wouldn’t let you and so you sulked for six weeks straight until she agreed to let you use it for your exhibition skate. And you got Señor Bun when you were three years old from your Aunt Judy—she brought him back from a trip to Texas, and he was supposed to go to your cousin Polly. But she wanted the stuffed lion instead, so you got to keep him,” Kent says, rattling off facts that he knows _have_ to hold true, in any universe—the facts that make Eric who he is.

Bitty and Jack stare at him again. “How do you—how do you know those things?” Bitty asks, white as a sheet.

Kent smiles mirthlessly. “I told you,” he says. “I have a boyfriend—I love him, and he’s you.”

 

\---

 

It actually does take a phone call to Richards to get Bitty to believe him, which is annoying and hurtful, but whatever. It works, doesn’t it?

“Alright, Mr. Parson, you have one more person you can tell,” Richards tells him at the end of it. “Thank you for your discretion, and please continue to be this wise in your choice of confidants.”

“Sure thing,” Kent says sourly, then hangs up the phone without saying goodbye.

“I can’t believe this,” Bitty says faintly.

“Oh, believe it,” Kent says, laughing viciously and running a hand through his hair.

“You’re from an alternate universe.”

“Yup.”

“Where we’re dating.”

“Yup.”

“We’re dating?”

“Yup.”

“I can’t believe this,” Bitty repeats, shaking his head, and a combination of anger and despair twists in Kent’s gut.

“Yeah, I know, but I’m not making this shit up,” he snarls.

 _You’re mine_ , he wants to say. _You’re mine and I’m yours and you love me._

He bites his lip instead and wishes he could break into their liquor cabinet, pour himself some vodka to take the edge off. That probably wouldn’t be a good idea, though—he needs to be in control of all his senses to survive this mess.

Bitty wrinkles his nose at him. “Don’t take that tone with me, Parse,” he says, and Kent wants to howl.

He exhales hard instead, cuts a glance towards Jack, who’s been staring at his hands this whole time. “What about you?” he demands.

Jack looks up at him. “Parse, I believed you the second you talked about Señor Bun,” he says seriously. “There’s no way you could have known those things otherwise. And you wouldn’t lie—not about this. I know you.”

A lump forms in Kent’s throat. “Sure, man,” he says, smiling bitterly. “You think that.”

Bitty narrows his eyes at him. “Look, what is your problem?” he demands.

“My ex is dating my boyfriend!” Kent shouts, gesturing wildly. “How the fuck would I not have a problem with this?”

Bitty makes a face. “Ew,” he says, absolutely gutting Kent with a single syllable, “that’s so weird.”

“Bittle,” Jack says sternly, a warning, though his eyes stay steady on Kent’s, and _God_ , does Kent want to hole up somewhere and hide, pretend this whole night never happened, pretend there doesn’t exist a universe where Eric is disgusted by the thought of being with him, where _Jack_ is the one who jumps in to protect him, same as he did on the ice once upon a time.

“What?” Bitty says. “You’ve gotta admit it’s weird.” He waves his hand around. “I mean, where are you even supposed to be in this situation?”

“In Providence,” Kent says, “playing for the Falcs, same as here.”

Jack looks at him, and he _knows_. “We’re not friends there, are we?” he asks quietly.

Kent flinches. After a long, tense moment, he admits, “…no. We’re not.”

Jack’s jaw clenches and he gives a single, terse nod. “I understand,” he says. “I’m sorry if I—made you uncomfortable. I thought you—I thought you were my Parse.”

“He’s _not_ yours, you asshole,” Kent barks, a fault-line of feelings shaking him apart, anger and guilt and resentment all rising to the surface and shifting the very tectonics of who he is.

 _Your fault_ , Kent Parson thinks. _The Kent who lives here wanted to get over you, and he couldn’t because you keep sucking him in, you keep—you keep pushing him. Making him think he’s got a chance with your smiles and your friendship, fucking putting your **hands** on him like you could want him still. I’m here because of him, because of **you** , this is your fault, Zimms, **your fault** —_

This. This is a Kent Parson who hasn’t yet forgiven Jack Zimmermann. This is a Kent Parson who's yet to forgive himself.

“You think he could want you?” he says, a sneer on his face, all the hard, ugly things he keeps tamped down exploding like bombs in his chest and making their way out, messy and cruel. “ _You?_ Zimms, who are you kidding? You think he’s yours, you think you have a _right_ to him? Fuck you, Jack Zimmermann, you’re the same in every universe, and I can’t believe my other self is stupid and gullible enough to hang around you and think that _friendship_ is all you want out of him, you selfish, disgusting—”

“Shut the hell up,” Eric Bittle bites out, getting between Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson. He lifts his chin, cheeks flushed from anger, eyes flashing with rage and determination, and Kent Parson takes one look at him and shuts his mouth. 

 _Oh, fuck_ , he thinks, glancing at Jack, who’s sitting behind Bitty with his shoulders slumped, and his face pale and fragile as paper. _Oh, fuck_ , Kent thinks, _oh, no, I did it again, I hurt him again, shit. Shit. **This** is why I didn’t want to be around him, this is why I didn’t want to come here—we’re no good for each other, I’m no good for him, I—_

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Kent says. “I’ve—I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Bitty grits out from between clenched teeth. “Not without apologizing first.”

“Bitty,” Jack says, and Bitty holds up a hand.

“No,” he says, his fingers trembling but his voice holding steady. “No. Nobody gets to talk to you like that, and get away with it. Not in our home. He’s apologizing.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent says quickly, his voice sounding like it’s being scraped out of him.

“For what?” Bitty demands.

“For hurting you,” he says, looking directly at Jack. He can do this. He can say sorry face to face. It’s more of a chance than he’s had before. He clenches his hands, shoving his nails into his palms to keep himself grounded, even as he feels his head going fuzzy. “For saying things that were _meant_ to hurt you, just because I could. For presuming to know anything about you, or about your relationship with me, when clearly this is a different world, and we’re different people, and we actually managed to fucking be friends, and—” He stops, envy and bitterness clogging his throat.

“Parse,” says Jack, his face crumpling. “Parse, I know you must’ve been hurting, too. I’m sorry, I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, being here—I’ve gotta be making everything worse. I’m s—”

“Don’t,” Kent says, squeezing his eyes shut. All the anger is sliding out of him, shame taking its place, and he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to be in front of a Jack Zimmermann that can put himself in Kent’s shoes, that can stand there as Kent rips him apart, and still try and reach for him afterwards like he _cares_.

 _Oh, God,_ he thinks, a sudden realization coming over him. _No wonder my other self’s not over him._   

A Jack Zimmermann who cares? The other Kent Parson might as well be a moth near a flame, wings singed, lungs burnt, and still coming back for more and more and more.

“Don’t,” Kent repeats, and what he really means is, _Don’t do this to me. Don’t make me remember why it took so long to let you go._

“Okay,” Jack says, and when Bitty opens his mouth to protest, Jack squeezes his hand. “You’ll come back, right?” he asks Kent, and Kent sees it for the olive branch it is.

“Yeah,” he says, dropping his gaze. “I will.”

He heads for the door, and he doesn’t look back.

 

\---

 

“Good God in heaven,” Bitty says once the door closes, sitting back down beside Jack. “What a hell of a mess.”

Jack doesn’t even say anything, just buries his face against Bitty’s neck.

“Oh, baby,” Bitty says, his heart twisting. “Baby, I can’t believe he said those things to you.”

“He was hurting,” Jack says.

“That’s no excuse,” Bitty replies as he moves onto Jack’s lap. “Ugh! I thought the two of you were past this already.”

“He’s not the same Parse,” Jack protests. “You can’t—you can’t treat them the same.”

 _I don’t know about that_ , Bitty thinks. He still hasn’t forgotten Epikegster—forgiven Parse for it, maybe, but he hasn’t forgotten. He saw that same Kent Parson tonight.

Then again—it was true that _this_ Kent Parson looked at him differently. Reacted to him differently. _Kissed_ him differently.

Well, kissed him at all.

Bitty puts a hand to his lips, remembering. “This afternoon went a hell of a lot differently than I thought it would.”

Jack laughs at that, shaking his head. “God, don’t I know it.” He closes his eyes.

Bitty looks down at him, stroking his hair gently. “You—you really wanted—”

 _Him_ , he thinks.

“—this,” he says instead.

Jack nods just the once.

Bitty sighs, not knowing what to say. “Baby—”

“I don’t want him more than you,” Jack interrupts, wrapping his arms around Bitty’s waist. “I don’t—you come first. You’ll always come first.”

Bitty leans his cheek against Jack’s head. “I know that, honey,” he says, and he _does_. He just—he’s just become very aware of the fact that even if _he’s_ first, Jack has deliberately and consistently placed Parse second, and not a distant second, at that. Bitty doesn’t know what he feels about it, exactly.

Parse has been—Parse has been lovely, if he’s completely honest. Kind and thoughtful and funny, and Bitty’s been charmed, he’ll admit it. But now it turns out it’s not even the _right_ Parse, and _this_ Parse is harboring all the old rage and resentment towards Jack that Bitty wouldn’t touch, not even with a ten-foot-pole.

It’s…it’s a mess, is what it is.

“God, he must be so confused,” Jack says suddenly. “Parse. The—the Parse from our universe, I mean.”

 _Your Parse_ , Bitty thinks. “Well, honey,” he says dryly, “it shouldn’t be too bad for him. He got to wake up next to me after all, and I heard from several reliable sources tonight that I’m apparently easy to love.”

Not that he thought for a second that that went over well. Parse probably gave up the jig in about two seconds flat; he’s never tried hiding his resentment or annoyance with Bitty, and the feeling’s more than mutual, though Bitty can also admit that Parse has never tried anything. He’s always been a good friend to Jack, ever since they reconciled, and though he might take jabs at Bitty’s age and inexperience, he’s never crossed the line. He’s never been outright cruel towards Bitty, never given worse than he’s gotten, and for all their bickering and sniping, Bitty knew he and Parse were always united in keeping Jack safe and happy.

Bitty examines his feelings a little more closely and is—kinda surprised, at how much he misses that side of Parse, the ally he could depend on to help protect Jack from a world far too determined to wear him down.

Jack chuckles. “He must hate it.” A long pause. “A universe where you’re in love with Parse. I wonder what that’s like?”

“Honey,” Eric Bittle says with conviction, “it’ll be weird as hell, I’ll tell you that right now.”

Jack chuckles again, rougher this time. “You think—you think he’s doing okay?”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “When has that boy ever not landed on his feet?”

Jack goes silent and Bitty has to hide a wince. Right. After the draft. Right.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Bitty continues, putting as much soothing confidence into his tone as he can. “I’m honestly more worried about this one here with us.”

Jack winces. “Euh. You’re right.” He worries at his lip, a telltale sign of anxiety. “You think we should just let him go home?”

Bitty snorts. “And how exactly is he supposed to fulfill our universe’s Kent Parson’s wish if he’s in Las Vegas?”

Jack makes a questioning noise, and Bitty sighs. This boy, honestly.

“I’d bet ten thousand dollars that Kent Parson spent his Cup wish on you,” he spells out.

Jack splutters. “Bitty, that’s—that’s really not true, you saw how he—”

“You were the one who just said that they’re not the same person! Never mind _that_ Kent Parson, think about _your_ Kent Parson. Jack,” Bitty says, stern when Jack opens his mouth to protest. “Be honest. Do you really think your Kent Parson isn’t in love with you?”

Jack looks at him with clear blue eyes. “Bitty, I know he’s not,” he says quietly. “He’s—he’s an all or nothing guy. If he loved me that way, I don’t think he could even stand being in the same room with me.”

“Well, this new one hates you, and he still can’t stand it, apparently,” Bitty points out.

Jack smiles, the curve of it full of sorrow. “Exactly,” he says, and Bitty wonders what it says about him, that he knows with one word exactly what Jack’s trying to tell him—that Parse loves and hates in the exact same way, with the same unyielding fierceness.

Bitty wonders what it says, that he knows this because he himself is cut from the same cloth.

Bitty presses his lips into a thin, closed line, and pulls Jack to himself more tightly.

 

\---

 

Parse comes back a little over five hours later, right after the sun’s finished setting, his eyes red-rimmed but his gaze sharp and clear, his shoulders loose and the tension in his frame lessened, if not completely gone. 

“Hey,” he says with a nod when Bitty opens the door for him, closing it shut as soon as he’s inside. He looks Bitty directly in the eye and states: “I’m sorry for shouting like that earlier. Being upset was no excuse for saying such things in your home to the person you love.”

Well. If he’s going to be that way about it.

Bitty tries to hold onto his anger, and honestly it wouldn’t be that difficult to do—Parse really had no business treating Jack like that—but then Jack comes in and sees Parse, and his eyes go wide with relief.

“Parse,” Jack says, openly grateful, “you came back.”

And Parse just—he just looks at Jack like he hasn’t seen him in _years_ and he doesn’t know what the hell to do with him, and, oh. _Oh._ This isn’t the same Parse, is it? This is—this is the Parse from two years ago, the Parse waiting for Jack at T.F. Green Airport, his eyes wide and unsure and more than a little afraid, the Parse who was so damn careful and quiet, and treated Jack like he was made of glass and like he himself was made of steel spikes.

It’s a Parse whose wounds have just barely started to close, and who doesn’t trust himself not to lash out in his pain.

Bitty purses his lips. Well, damn. He hates it when Jack’s right and he’s so completely wrong about something.

“You’d better come in then,” Bitty grumbles, “I need somebody to do the chopping, and you know Jack can’t be trusted.”

Both Jack and Parse send him matching looks of naked relief and love, and Bitty doesn’t know what to do about _that_ , either, so he ducks into the kitchen to do what he does best instead.

 

\---

 

Dinner is…enlightening, to say the least. Awkward, but enlightening.

Bitty and Parse carry the bulk of the conversation, but that’s not exactly a new situation, though it _is_ new that Jack is barely saying a thing. But, well. Bitty understands, and Parse does, too, so they ignore the elephant in the room and play the get-to-know-alternate-you game instead.

“So…I’m a figure skater,” Bitty says.

“Yep,” Parse replies as he methodically shovels fettucine alfredo into his mouth. “Two-time Olympic medalist, bronze and silver.”

Bitty blinks. _“Really?”_ he says, excited despite himself. An Olympic medalist? _Him?_

“Really, really,” Parse answers, his eyes warm and open, and Bitty glances away. Parse clears his throat. “You’re based in Las Vegas, and you train with Inez Herrera and Han Woo Jin under Irina Starkova.”

 _“Inez Herrera?”_ Bitty says, shocked speechless. “But she’s the reigning U.S. champ!”

Parse grins, perfectly pleased. “So are you,” he says, and Bitty can’t believe this.

“I don’t believe this,” he says, patting Jack’s forearm. “Honey, do you hear this? I’m the U.S. champ!”

“I can believe it,” Jack says, the same warm, open look on his face that’s stuck on Parse’s, and Bitty really has to stop comparing the two. “You’re a great skater.”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “You mean I was a decent hockey player.”

Jack opens his mouth to refute him, but Parse gets there first. “Bitty, no,” Parse protests, “you were a _great_ hockey player. You had soft hands and played a smart game, and, _God_ , watching you on the ice! That game against Harvard? You were brilliant.”

Alright, so his mama would probably scold him for catching flies right about now, but can anybody really blame him? Kent Parson, three-time Stanley Cup winner, just admitted to watching his hockey games. “You—you saw that game?”

Parse flushes red clear to the tips of his ears and he drops his gaze to his plate, lashes long and golden against his skin where they sweep down to hide his sea-green eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I—I may or may not have stalked you online. Just—just to see how you were doing here.”

Oh. That was—oh. Bitty clears his throat, his brain suddenly deciding, for some strange, inconvenient reason, to remind him that Parse had known—really _known_ —how to kiss him earlier. “That, uh, that makes sense,” Bitty says diplomatically. “I would’ve looked Jack up, too, if I were in a universe where I wasn’t with him.”

Parse shrugs. “Sorry,” he says, abrupt. “I know that was weird.”

Bitty puts his fork down. “Did you not hear the part where I just said that it made sense, you doing that?” he demands.

Parse looks up at him, then over at Jack, then back down to his plate. “Yeah, but—but you don’t want to hear about me,” he says, and Jack’s face falls. Bitty’s not having this, not at his dinner table.

Parse says, “Lemme tell you about—”

“—about how we met,” Bitty says firmly.

Parse and Jack look at him with eyes of matching, perfectly shocked blue.

 _These boys_ , Bitty thinks, a rush of fondness overtaking him.

“Uh, sure,” Parse says, blinking slowly. “Um, well, it really started with Carrie, so—”

“Carrie?” Jack says, face lighting up with surprise and joy, and right—Carrie. Parse’s sister. Jack still talks about her a lot, sends her gifts every Christmas now that he and Kent are talking again, treats her like she’s his own little sister. Bitty’s seen pictures of her, even if they’ve never met—she looks like a female version of Parse, but even prettier, if that’s possible. All sharp angles and confident grins, with that same upturned nose, and those same changeable eyes, and that same chin, tilted up like she could take on the world and she knew it.

“Yeah, Carrie—you’re her best friend, see,” Parse says, and Bitty and Jack spend the next hour and a half getting a glimpse into a whole other world.

It’s…a surprisingly nice one. Bitty can admit that, at least, even though a world without Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, Holster, Chowder, Nursey, Dex, or the rest of SMH seems awfully strange to him.

 _A world without Jack_ , he thinks, looking over at his boyfriend.

 _A world with Kent Parson instead_ , he thinks right after, glancing at Kent, and the thought doesn’t fill him with as much dread as he would’ve expected.

 

\---

 

Kent Parson is washing the dishes, Jack Zimmermann standing beside him and drying them, Bitty on Kent’s other side and chatting up a storm, when the second biggest surprise of the day happens.

The wide kitchen window above the sink goes white, like it’s been blasted by frost, and Kent drops a plate in shock.

“What the fuck,” he says, and Bitty’s about to echo him in agreement when the frost starts cracking, the ice creaking and splintering until it looks like it _shatters_ —

Shatters to reveal one Kent Parson standing next to one Eric Bittle, standing in what looks to be a very modern-looking bathroom.

“What the hell,” Bitty says, his eyes going wide.

“Kenny!” the him in the mirror shouts, his face about to break open from the force of his smile, and he slaps his open palm against the window, all exuberant joy.

“Eric,” the Parse beside Bitty croaks, holding up his hand to meet him through the glass.

The Parse in the mirror, though—he’s only got eyes for Jack.

“Hey, Zimms,” the other Parse says, touching tender fingertips to the window, and Bitty knows what he’ll say next before he says it, knows it in his _bones_ :

“Didja miss me?” Kent Parson asks.

“Parse,” Jack answers, and Bitty wonders what it means that he says it in the same tone he uses to say, “I’m home.”

It isn’t bad, he thinks, and it isn’t good—but it certainly promises to be complicated.

 

\---   

 

After relocating to the living room—which is apparently very easy to do, since the spell—and, no, Bitty cannot believe that this is his life now, either, thank you very much—come on, _magic spells?_ —since the spell sort of hones in on Parse and follows him wherever he goes, projecting the window to the alternate universe onto whatever reflective surface is nearest to him.

So now the three of them are sitting in front of the wall of windows that make up the east side of the living room, and original-Parse and other-Bitty are sitting down at the vanity of the hotel room in Boston where they’re staying.

“What’re you even doing in Boston, baby?” Parse—the alternate Parse, the Parse that switched places with theirs—says, his face all smiles and wet-eyed relief.

The Bitty in the mirror rolls his eyes. “Trying to get you back, what else?” he explains, huffing a breath up at the bangs of his hair, which is a little longer and blonder than Bitty’s own. Maybe the difference shouldn’t throw him off so much, but Bitty defies anyone watching their own reflection move and talk independently of themselves to _not_ be a little creeped out by it.

“Eric,” Parse says, his voice cracking, and the other-Bitty’s face goes soft with adoration.

“I’m going to get you back,” he says, “I promise, sugar, me and Kenny here are working on it.” He pats the hand of the Parse beside him with firm affection, and Bitty doesn’t know what surprises him more, that the original Parse is letting him, or that neither of them seem particularly aware of the contact, though Bitty can tell that Parse from the alternate universe is tracking the movement like a hawk.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” alternate-Parse murmurs after a moment, his eyes shifting back to focus on other-Bitty’s face. “I thought—I thought I was making you up. Thought I dreamed you.”

The other Bitty’s face contorts with a mix of agony and love that Bitty sometimes wishes he weren’t so intimately familiar with—it comes from caring for complicated people, letting them into your heart, all the twists and turns of them. “Sugar,” Bitty’s mirror-self says, smiling through it, “I hate to say it, but your imagination’s not good enough for that, you know.”

The Parse next to Bitty laughs, watery but true. “Eric,” he says again, a wealth of meaning in one name, and, oh, God, no wonder he was so adamant about being in love.

Jack clears his throat, uncomfortable, and Bitty’s eyes go to him. So do both Kents’. So does other-Bitty’s, and from the corner of his eye, Bitty can see how his counterpart’s lips press together in an angry line, how his jaw clenches and goes stiff.

 _Oh, no_ , Bitty thinks, turning to face his alternate-self right in time for the man to paste on _the_ fakest smile that Bitty’s ever seen and say, “Jack Zimmermann. Been a while. _So_ lovely to see you again.”

Everybody else in the room flinches.

Well, everybody but Bitty, who just crosses his arms, raises his nose in the air, and corrects him: “It hasn’t actually been a while, considering you two’ve never met. This is a completely different Jack Zimmermann, see, so really we ought to be introducing ourselves.” He pastes on his own patently false, bright smile. “Hi, I’m Eric Bittle, please call me Bitty.”

His counterpart merely widens his own grin, not backing down an inch. “What a coincidence! My name’s the same, but I go by Eric, the name my Mama gave me, instead of a nickname that makes me sound like a toddler.”

 _What the fuck_ , Bitty thinks, incensed.

“Eric,” both Kents say, one in warning, the other clearly scolding.

Bitty’s surprised to see that it’s the one in the mirror that’s using the latter tone. “Knock it off, man,” original-Parse says. “I know it’s been a long day, but you don’t have to be mean about it. Not in his own house, dude.”

Other-Bitty clenches his jaw but subsides. “Fine,” he says petulantly, and _no_ , there’s no way Bitty’s ever sounded that whiny, nuh-uh. “Sorry about insulting your nickname.”

 _Even if it_ is _stupid_ , his face clearly states, but Bitty accepts his apology because unlike _some_ people, he is a mature and responsible adult.

“Better,” their Kent Parson says. “And, uh, you guys clearly know who I am,” he says, nodding at both Jack and Bitty. His eyes land on his counterpart, sitting between the two of them, and he says, “Hey, man. I’m, uh—I’m you, I guess. Sorry for—sorry for getting you into this mess. We’re, uh, we’re pretty sure it was my wish that screwed everything up.”

“We know no such thing,” other-Bitty—no, _Eric_ says in protest. “And even if it _was_ your wish, the Stanley Cup should’ve minded its own business. Honestly, kidnapping people? How rude.”

Both Kents crack open small smiles, like matching mirror images. “I know, right?” they say in tandem, then blink in surprise, also in tandem.

“This is so fucking weird,” they say in unison, and then one scowls while the other laughs.

“Dude,” original-Parse complains, “stop laughing at me, man.”

“C’mon,” alternate-Parse replies. “You gotta admit it’s funny.”

“I, personally, am not surprised that you two are exactly the same,” Eric mutters. “I didn’t even notice you’d switched for _weeks_.”

“Same,” Jack seconds, and Bitty notices that Eric starts frowning before he catches himself and starts fake-smiling again.

“And who might you be?” he asks Jack, all sweetly-poisonous venom.

“Euh,” Jack says, blinking. “I’m Jack Zimmermann. Friend of Parse, boyfriend of Bitty.”

“How wonderful!” mirror-Eric says. “It’s _lovely_ to meet you. And in your own home, too! My, I’m so glad that you’re taking _such_ good care of my Kenny.”

 _Wait a minute_ , Bitty thinks, recognizing the look in his eyes. _He’s jealous._

“Oh, my God,” original-Parse says, “oh, my God, you’re _jealous_.” He starts laughing, to Bitty’s utter confusion and indignation.

 _This is not the time!_ he tries telling original-Parse telepathically, but the idiot’s skull is too thick to get the message.

“Buddy,” he says, turning to face Eric with a lazy tilt of his head, “buddy, I promise you, it’s not like that. Zimms and I are friends, okay? He’s like a brother to me. I would never. Whatever you think is going on, it’s platonic, alright? The raciest thing that probably happened was me beating the pants off of Zimms at Mario Kart.”

Bitty suddenly finds the floor very, very fascinating. Thank God the lighting’s dim. Beside him, Parse’s hand clenches into a fist before he quickly releases it, and Bitty can practically _feel_ the tension radiating from Jack.

“Well, if _you_ say so,” Eric says, a touch doubtfully. He smiles apologetically at alternate-Parse. “Don’t worry, baby, it’s not that I don’t trust you.” His eyes slide over to Jack, then flicker back to Parse’s.

It’s quite, quite clear who it is that he _doesn’t_ trust, and Bitty would feel more outraged on Jack’s behalf, except. Well. They’d thoroughly proven his suspicions correct that very afternoon, and thus don’t exactly have a leg to stand on, do they?

Bitty fidgets.

“Eric,” alternate-Parse says again, some of his guilt leaking into his tone, and Bitty clears his throat before he can spill the beans and ruin everything.

“So!” Bitty says, turning to the Parse beside him. “What about you?”

Alternate-Parse looks at him like a deer in the headlights. “Um—”

“Your introduction! We haven’t really heard it yet,” Bitty says.

“Oh. Uh. Well, I’m Kent Parson, and I’m Eric’s—well. I’m Eric’s,” he says softly.

“That’s right, sugar,” mirror-Eric says, just as soft and more openly possessive than Bitty normally lets himself get in company. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and don’t you forget it.”

Kent Parson smiles down at his feet, the curve of it small and real and blinding. “Yeah,” he echoes, and Bitty has to tear his eyes away. It’s too raw, too intimate, and he can feel his face flushing from the force of the want tangling between these two people.

Unfortunately, in his haste to look away, Bitty looks up to meet the original Parse’s slate-gray gaze through the mirror, his face carefully blank.

 _What are you thinking?_ Bitty wonders.

After a moment, original-Parse looks away. “So, that’s everybody,” he says, stretching his neck out. “I guess you can call me Parse, and this other-me—” He squints. “What do you want to be called, man?”

“I was thinking of him as alternate-Parse, to be honest,” Bitty confesses.

Eric scrunches up his nose in distaste. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Bitty, but I’m sorry to have to inform you that you’re wrong, because _you_ are the alternate timeline.”

“Uh, pretty sure it doesn’t work that way,” original-Parse says, raising a brow.

“Oh, hush you, we have no idea how it works,” Eric says, waving a dismissive hand. “And I _refuse_ to let my universe be established as the non-original, alright? Y’all are the divergent ones, and, as Carrie and everybody else pointed out, y’all are living in the darkest timeline.”

“Excuse _me_ ,” Bitty says, affronted, but Eric just ignores him.

“Now, baby—” Eric starts.

“Wait a minute,” alternate-Parse interrupts, holding up a hand to forestall him. “How many people know about The Switch?” Bitty can practically hear the capital letters. “Did you—you’ve only told five people, right?”

Eric scowls, blurting in annoyance, “Oh, my God, you’ve been talking to Richards.”

Beside Bitty, Parse laughs out loud, his shoulders shaking and shoulders brushing against Bitty’s. “Well, yeah? I figured out what caused this on day one, so I went over to Gopher’s place to try and get the Cup to switch me back.” He smiles sardonically. “Didn’t exactly work out, as you can see.”

“Wow, I didn’t figure it out until two days ago,” original-Parse says, scratching his nose in clear embarrassment.

Alternate-Parse snorts. “Bro, what else could it have been?”

Original-Parse shrugs. “I don’t know, man, waking up next to Bitty wasn’t exactly high on my list of priorities, you know? It literally never occurred to me that that would be how the Stanley Cup would interpret my wish.” He looks through the mirror at Bitty and Jack. “Anyway, so you told Bitty and Jack—who else knows?”

“Just Swoops and Mags. Everybody else is in the dark. Didn’t want to freak them out,” alternate-Parse admits. “So I still have one person I could tell. How ’bout you? Who knows on your end?”

“Well, Carrie, Cait, and Chowder all know,” Eric says, “and so does Pager and his mama—”

“Oh, my God, Mrs. Pagett knows?” alternate-Parse interrupts. Bitty’s still stuck on the ‘Chowder’ part, actually—like, who would’ve thought this Eric would also have a friend named Chowder? What a coincidence.

“Yes, yes, she does,” Eric says, waving a hand in dismissal. “She’s not gonna tell anyone, she _loves_ you.”

“Wait a minute,” alternate-Parse says, wrinkling his nose. “That’s more than five people, if we include you.”

“Baby, I will tell whoever the fuck I want,” Eric states flatly. “If Richards wanted me to keep my mouth shut, he should’ve told me how to bring you home.”

“Well, technically—” original-Parse starts.

“Doesn’t count!” Eric replies, flapping a hand. “We already knew you made a wish, and so his advice was redundant beyond belief.”

“Well, at least he let us know we could call Bad Bob for help,” original-Parse points out.

“Wait, Papa knows about this?” Jack bursts out at the same time alternate-Parse yells, “You called Dad Bob for help?”

“Uh, yeah?” original-Parse says, tilting his head to the side quizzically. “I mean, he’s been through this before.”

“He _has?”_ Jack asks, surprised.

“Knew it,” alternate-Parse mutters. He rubs his forehead. “You call the house phone? Aren’t he and Mrs. Zimmermann usually in Florida by now, though?”

“Well, yeah, but I got his cell, so it was fine,” original-Parse says, shrugging, and uh-oh. That’s his shifty-eyed posture, the posture he uses to try and hide that something’s up.

Alternate-Parse narrows his eyes. “How’d you get his cell?” he asks suspiciously. “Most people who have it won’t give it to you if you ask.”

“Well…” original-Parse says, looking askance at Eric, who’s staring straight at alternate-Parse instead, oddly focused. “…I called Zimms.”

“You—you what?” alternate-Parse says blankly.

“I called Zimms,” original-Parse repeats quickly, crossing his arms, all studied nonchalance.

It doesn’t distract his counterpart. “You—but how?”

“Well, you have his number,” original-Parse answers.

“No, I don’t,” alternate-Parse denies heatedly. “I deleted it!”

The Parse in the mirror frowns. “Right. It wasn’t saved,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “Well, he has _your_ number,” he points out. “He called me a few weeks ago.”

“What—why?” alternate-Parse asks, completely floored. Bitty watches Eric watching him, and sees the exact moment the tension goes out of him, relief flooding his brown eyes as he takes in alternate-Parse’s confusion.

Original-Parse, interestingly enough, looks at Eric, then looks meaningfully back at alternate-Parse, raising a single brow. “He, uh, didn’t get a reply to a text he sent,” he says. “So he called me to follow up on it.”

“Fuck,” alternate-Parse groans, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Meanwhile, Bitty sees that Eric’s gone tense again. “What text?” Eric asks, quietly suspicious.

“I’ll explain later,” original-Parse replies, now raising his brows meaningfully at _Eric_. Bitty suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. How many secrets was he keeping, exactly?

“Oh, my God,” alternate-Parse says, going pale with dread. “Oh, my God, wait, wait—” He shuts his mouth closed with a faint clack, staring intently at his counterpart. The Parse in the mirror stares just as intently back.

“Hey, Eric?” original-Parse asks after a long moment. “Could you step outside with me for a bit?”

Eric frowns. “Kenny—”

“It’s nothing bad, I promise. I just—how much do we want to explain, you know?”

“Oh,” Eric says, understanding dawning, and Bitty really wishes he’d share what he figured out with the rest of the class. “Okay.” He turns to the Parse beside Bitty. “Sugar, don’t worry, we’ll be back in a bit, okay? I promise I’ll tell you _everything_ when I can.”

“Babe—”

“Do you trust me?” Eric asks.

Alternate-Parse lets out a breath. “Of course,” he says swiftly. “Of course.”

Eric smiles, sweet and wide, a smile that Bitty’s only ever given to Jack. “Then trust me, baby. I’ve got you, okay?”

“Okay,” alternate-Parse whispers, and Eric and original-Parse leave their room.

As soon as they’re out of sight, the windows go white again, and Jack says, “Don’t tell him.”

“Huh?” alternate-Parse asks, not understanding, but Bitty knows. Bitty knew what Jack would say as soon as the words ‘he’s like a brother to me’ left original-Parse’s mouth.

“Don’t tell him,” Jack repeats, turning his head and looking at Parse pleadingly. “Please—I—I—it’ll mess everything up, please don’t tell him.”

Parse flinches back, lifts his hands as if he wants to cover his ears. “Why—”

“He doesn’t think of me that way,” Jack says. “Please, you heard what he said, how he—how he doesn’t want me anymore. What we had has been over for a long time, and I—I was just being stupid. I was seeing what I wanted to see. Please, if you tell him, he’s—he’s going to hate me.”

“Baby,” Bitty says in protest, because he’s pretty damn sure that Jack is wrong about this, and wrong about everything, at that.

Parse hesitates before saying, “He wouldn’t _hate_ you.”

And, really? _That’s_ the best he’s got? Bitty stares at him, incredulous.

“But he wouldn’t look at me the same,” Jack says, shaking his head quickly. “He’d—he’d pity me. Please, you don’t understand, it took so long to get him back after—after everything. I don’t—I couldn’t bear to lose him again, please. Not again,” he says, his blue eyes beseeching, and Bitty knows even before he answers what Parse will say.

In any universe, there isn’t a Kent Parson that can tell Jack Zimmermann no—not when he looks at him like _that_.

“Okay,” Kent Parson says. “Okay. I won’t tell him.”

Jack Zimmermann closes his eyes and sighs in relief. Because of this, he doesn’t see how Kent Parson’s hands are shaking.

But Bitty’s watching him. Bitty sees, and he remembers.

 _What went wrong?_ he wonders. _What went so wrong between the two of you, that you still haven’t managed to forgive each other?_

He doesn’t have the answers, not yet, but he’ll work towards them.

 

\---

 

The Kent Parson trapped in Providence, Rhode Island—Eric’s Kenny—picks at his nails and waits for Eric and his other-self to return, studiously ignoring both Zimms and Bitty, who’ve relocated to the couch, Bitty ensconced in Zimms’ lap like he belongs there.

 _And he does, you doofus_ , Kenny tells himself. _You’ve got your own Eric back now, remember?_

 _But am I any good for him?_ an errant thought replies quietly.

Before he can come up with a good answer, Eric and Kenny’s other-self come back; Eric’s got a determined look on his face, and Kenny’s counterpart is equally serious.

“Zimms,” mirror-Kent starts, the nickname dropping so easily from his lips, none of the hesitation in his voice that’s present in Kenny’s when he attempts to do the same, “could you and Bitty give us a second? This next part’s kinda private.” His eyes flick to Kenny’s, dark blue and intent. “They put you up in the green guest room? The mirror in the bathroom’s pretty decent there.”

So he’s stayed here before, often enough that he has a regular guest room. Kenny knows he shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. “Okay,” he agrees, “I’ll meet you there.”

Jack clears his throat when Kenny gets up to leave. “See you soon, Parse,” he says, addressing mirror-Kent.

The Kent in the mirror gives him a half-smile. “See you soon, Zimms,” he echoes, easy as breathing, and Kenny feels like he’s drowning.

 _Do you know how he wants you? Do you have any idea how goddamned lucky you are?_ he wants to ask, but he won’t. It’s not his place, and for all he knows, it might not actually be anything that his counterpart wants. Who knows what the truth is anymore? This morning he would’ve sworn that no universe existed where Jack Zimmermann could still want him, and look how wrong he was. Maybe this is the universe where Kent Parson _did_ get over him on his own—anything’s possible, now.

Kenny gets to the bathroom and waits for his other-self and his boyfriend to appear.

“Hey, sugar,” Eric says as soon as the frost fades, and he closes his eyes and presses his lips to the mirror, a sweet, chaste kiss.

Kenny leans forward, a lump in his throat, and meets him there. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs, and Eric opens his eyes to bare slits and smiles, warm and real.

“There you are,” he says. “There’s my Kenny,” and Kenny finally lets himself cry.

“I—I missed you so much,” he says between sobs, and Eric croons back, “Of course, baby. Me, too. Me, too. I’m here now, I’ve got you.” He keeps talking until the tears slow, a litany of soothing support. It takes a bit, unsurprisingly.

“Sorry,” Kent croaks, addressing his counterpart afterwards.

“Not a problem, man,” other-him says, shrugging, his face sympathetic. “I know things must’ve been tough for you. You fly out to Providence for Zimms’ birthday?”

“Yeah,” Kenny replies.

His mirror-self nods. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it. He’s one of my best friends, you know? Bitty and I planned it back in June, right after the play-offs ended. I know Jack was looking forward to it.”

“I didn’t do it for Jack,” Kenny protests. “I did it because Eric asked me to.”

“Sweetheart,” Eric says, exasperated, “you are aware that _that_ Eric isn’t me, right? You didn’t have to go. You could’ve stayed in Vegas, saved yourself the trouble.”

“But he asked me to,” Kenny replies, stubborn.

Eric only shakes his head, smiling despite his obvious annoyance. “Lord help me, what’ll I do with this boy,” he says, and maybe Kenny cries a little more, but fuck it—Eric’s here, and Eric loves him, and obviously he makes Eric happy, so everything’s fine now. It’s fine. He doesn’t have to be scared that he’s fucking everything up anymore, even if he _is_ scared that going home might be harder than he thought.

“Well, whatever reason you had for going, thanks for showing up, man,” his mirror-self says, getting the conversation back on track.

Kent clears his throat and lies, “It wasn’t a problem, dude.” Because it was _definitely_ a problem, and _pretty damn clearly_ an ongoing one, at that.

Thankfully, neither Eric nor his counterpart appear to pick up on his subterfuge, and Jack’s secret is still safe.

(“Don’t tell,” Jack Zimmermann pleaded, and everything in Kent Parson screamed to say no, to remember the last time he’d asked that of him—

And still he’d opened his mouth and _okay_ tumbled out of it.

 _Why do you do this to yourself, Parse_ , he asked himself in despair.)

“Anyway,” his mirror-self says. “Yes, I asked Zimms for his dad’s number. Didn’t tell him why, though, so your secret’s still safe,” he assures him in ironic echo of Kenny’s own thoughts. “Dad Bob promised not to tell anyone, either, so we’re fine.”

Kenny shrugs, feeling suddenly listless. “That’s good,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” his mirror-self replies, observing him carefully. He doesn’t say anything about Kenny’s moodiness, just goes straight to his next point: “So—I didn’t know you and Jack weren’t speaking.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, rubbing a hand over his face and giving him a smile that was more grimace than grin. “I got that, thanks.”

“Mmhm. Well, since I didn’t know, I started talking to him again, so you guys are kinda friends now, just FYI,” his mirror-self says, and _what the fuck_.

“What the fuck?” he demands. “You—you’re _friends_ again? How?”

It’s his counterpart’s turn to shrug. “I dunno, man, I just started texting him, and things went from there? He seems real nice, like my Zimms. A little less knowledgeable about pies and the history of food in the United States, especially in the context of the South, but still the same. It’s cool.”

It is the exact fucking opposite of cool. “What the fuck,” Kenny repeats, because who the hell did this Kent Parson sell his soul to, that he can be _this_ nonchalant about being friends with Jack Zimmermann?

“I know, baby,” Eric says in commiseration, and Kenny looks over at him helplessly.

“Baby,” he says, “baby, I would never—I was planning on never calling him again, it was just that one time, I swear. I just—I had to give him a heads-up about something, something hockey-related, and—”

“Sugar,” Eric interrupts. “I know why you called him.”

Kenny’s mouth freezes mid-sentence. “Huh?” he says, because Eric can’t know. He can’t possibly have figured it out, there’s no way—

Eric smiles softly at him. “This isn’t exactly the way I planned on doing this,” he says, “but I have to tell you, okay? I need you to know this, especially when you’re alone over there without me.”

“Okay,” Kenny says slightly worried.

Eric clears his throat, folding his hands together in front of him. “I found out about the switch two days ago,” he explains. “I was going to take you out for our anniversary—”

“Oh, my God,” Kenny groans, the date suddenly hitting him. “Oh, my God, our anniversary, I missed it—” He can’t _believe_ he forgot—and on their seventh one, too! God, he’s a fucking idiot, and that is _fact_. “—I missed it. Damn it,” he says, “I was gonna—”

His mouth snaps closed. Eric and his counterpart give him matching knowing looks.

 _Do_ they know? They can’t know, can they? How would his other-self even figure it out, it’s only been a few weeks.

Then he remembered—Zimms. The phone call. The text. The text about the engagement. _Shit_.

Kenny curses internally, because his counterpart is definitely in the know—but Eric shouldn’t have a clue, right?

Right?

Kenny’s so stressed that he misses the first part of Eric’s next sentence, tuning back in only once he notices mirror-Kent moving up and walking away so that he’s over in the corner of the room and Kenny can barely see him. What the hell is he doing over there?

“Well,” Eric says and Kenny snaps his gaze back to his boyfriend, “ _I_ was going to take you out to Mastro’s, have a nice dinner and everything.”

“We could’ve shared desserts,” Kenny says mournfully.

Eric giggles a little. “That was the plan. Then I thought we could drop by the Arena, maybe skate around for a bit—”

“They took my keys away, you know,” Kenny admits. They did it back in June, when they were deep into the play-offs, and Kenny would keep sneaking in and to get some extra practice and training done. It’s fine, he’ll get them back come October.

Well, he should, if he was back by then. Kenny suppresses a sigh.

“Oh, I borrowed a set from Jerome, it would’ve been fine,” Eric says, dismissive. “Anyway, once we got to the Arena and had a bit of fun, I’d have helped you out of your skates—”

“I don’t really need help with that, you know,” Kenny points out.

“—I’d have helped you out of your skates,” Eric repeats, ignoring him, “and I’d have asked you to hold onto this for me while I did so.”

He places a small ring box on the bathroom vanity.

Kenny stares at it for a whole sixty seconds, not moving, not even breathing.

“What the fuck,” Kenny whispers, and then he starts laughing. And then he starts crying. And then he starts laughing _and_ crying.

“Kenny,” Eric says, smiling at him so, so wide, “Kenny, sugar, would you do me a favor and marry me?” He places his hand against the glass, leaning forward conspiratorially. “And just so you know, this is a ‘yes or yes’ question.”

“Yes,” Kent Parson says, smiling back at him through his tears. “Yes, I’ll marry the fuck out of you.”

“Good,” Eric says, smug and pleased and certain, and, Jesus, does Kenny want to kiss him.

“Fuck,” he tells him, “I really, really want to kiss you.”

Eric scrunches up his nose. “God, sugar, I feel you—I do.”

Kenny laughs again. “I do,” he repeats. “We’re gonna be saying that in front—in front of fucking everybody. You and me, babe. We’re going to say our _I do_ ’s.”

“We are,” Eric agrees, stroking the glass. This is like a skype call, but worse, because at least during skype calls he knows the exact _d_ ate that he and Eric can see each other in person again.          

“Ugh,” Kenny says, “I can’t believe you didn’t get to propose in person.” A thought occurs to him. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe _you_ proposed.”

“Sugar, we both know if anybody was going to do the asking, it would’ve been me,” Eric argues, and, well. It was true, wasn’t it?

Another thought occurs to him. “Oh, my God,” Kenny says, “everybody’s going to be so pissed. The bet—” He shuts his mouth again.

Eric quirks a brow at him. “You mean the bet that started back in February, when you bought my ring?”

Kenny’s mouth drops open. “How do you know about that?”

Through the mirror, his counterpart snorts in disbelief, and Kenny turns to look at him, surprised. He kinda forgot he was there, to be honest. “Dude,” other-him says, “who the hell _doesn’t_ know? Even Regina and Clarence and everybody at Little Slice of Heaven knew—”

“That was because Janice mixed up my reservation,” Kenny argues.

“—the whole goddamn team knew, too, and so did the PR crew, the trainers, the nutritionists, half of GM—”

“Oh, my God,” Eric says, giggling in delight.

“—hell, the first thing Carrie asked me in this universe was if I’d proposed yet,” mirror-Kent rants, and okay, so maybe he was a little obvious in his intentions, but so what? Kenny knew that Eric was it for him before they’d even officially started dating. “Harsh truth, bro? It’s a goddamn miracle Eric didn’t find out any earlier, because you had no fucking chill, man.”

Kenny rolls his eyes. “Well, I’d like to see _you_ do better.”

Eric giggles again. “I dunno, he did pretty good.”

Mirror-him goes pink-cheeked in embarrassment. “Eric,” mirror-him hisses, and Kent stares at the two of them in disbelief. What the hell, mirror-him had _proposed?!_

“On accident,” Eric admits when he voices this thought, shrugging. “I was picking out your clothes, and forgot about your socks—”

“Oh, shit,” Kent says, suddenly knowing where this is going.

“—yeah, I know,” Eric replies, shaking his head. “Though, really, the sock drawer?”

“You never do the fucking laundry,” Kenny and his counterpart say at the same time, in the same affectionately exasperated tone of voice. Kenny has to bite back a wince—fuck, this whole thing is so weird, and that is _fact_.

Eric narrows his eyes playfully at him through the mirror, and elbows the Kent beside him. “ _Anyway_ ,” he continues, “there he was, on the night of our anniversary, struck speechless. And there I was, my ring box in one hand, _your_ ring box in my pocket, going up to him and getting down on one knee, about to die from how ridiculously cute we were—”

And, fuck, that _does_ sound cute. You couldn’t get any cuter than mutual surprise proposals.

“—when this idiot opens his mouth and tells me he can’t marry me because he was from an _alternate universe_.” Eric raises both his brows at Kenny.

“What the fuck,” Kenny says, looking at his other self in disbelief.

“What the hell was I supposed to say, man? Yes?” his alternate-self protests. “The bed was right fucking behind me, and I don’t think you’d have appreciated getting cheated on.”

Which. Yeah, okay, he could see that.

Yet _another_ thought occurs to him. Kenny blinks. “Wait a minute—” he starts, frowning.

“I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you were gonna ask,” mirror-Kent says. “Not unless you count actual sleeping.”

“He told me he lost a bet with Gopher,” Eric explains.

“Oh, my God,” Kenny says, embarrassed. “And you believed him?”

Eric quirks a brow at him. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But during _off-season?”_ Kenny demands.

Eric rolls his eyes. “Like I said: wouldn’t be the first time.”

Which. Okay, true enough. Kenny scratches at his nose. “God, what a mess,” he says.

“I hear you, man,” his counterpart says. “Though, hey, look at the bright side. Your man didn’t cheat on you, and obviously there’s no one for you to cheat with on my end of things, so everything’s fine and dandy, yeah?”

Kenny has a sudden flash of sense-memory: Bitty’s tongue sliding against his own, Jack’s stubble rasping against his cheek.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging artlessly, covering his mouth and what he could of his lower face with one hand. Kenny clears his throat and decides to change the subject to more important matters:

“So,” he says, “what did you wish for?”

“Ah,” his mirror-self says, blushing again. “Um. Well, I kinda wished that I could make somebody sound the way Zimms sounds when Bitty talks to him, you know?”

“Oh,” Eric says, looking at him. “But—I thought you were happy?”

Mirror-Kent clears his throat. “I am,” he insists. “I just—I get lonely, too, sometimes. And—well, the idea of settling down with someone, having a long-term thing—that sounded cool, you know?”

“Kenny,” Eric says, sad, and he covers mirror-Kent’s hand with his own. Kenny has to ruthlessly quash the jealousy that rises within him that _mirror-Kent_ gets to have Eric touching him.

Other-him glances at him and pulls his hand away. “I’m fine,” he says. “We just—we’ve just got to find me a significant other, right? And then we’ll switch back, since you already managed to propose.”

Kenny wonders what the proposal has to do with anything before he realizes—

“Oh, shit,” he says, “that’s—that’s not actually what my wish was.”

Both Eric and his alternate-self look at him in surprise. “It’s not?” Eric says. “Then what the hell was it?”

Oooh, boy. Kenny winces. “I…kinda…sorta wished that Zimms’d be as happy as me when I’m with you,” he says, rushing desperately through the whole last half of that.

Eric takes the news about as well as he expected: he blinks, and says slowly, “I’m sorry, what now?”

Kent Parson winces again, and begins to justify himself: “Well, you see—”

 

\---  

 

At the end of his rambling explanation, Eric’s arms are crossed and his mouth is pressed into a displeased line, clearly unhappy.

Mirror-Kent just takes his snapback off and runs a hand through his already messy hair. “Well, look at the bright side,” he says again, “at least I’m friends with Zimms here, too, so he’s probably gonna be polite long enough for us to explain the situation and show him the irrefutable proof before he tries to throw us out.” A beat. “Probably.”

Kenny smiles, all teeth and no kindness. “Awesome,” he says, completely deadpan.

So, his return to the proper universe was dependent on Jack Zimmermann’s romantic fulfillment? Well, he might as well kiss goodbye to any chance he had of making it home within the month, considering that _his_ Jack had zero percent interest in him or anyone else outside of hockey.

 _Great_ , Kenny thinks. _Just_ great _._

 

_\---_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so author finally manages to write a chapter that's shorter than her last. :D (To be honest, though, I...don't think any chapter from hereon in is going to be shorter than 10K. So. Thou'st been forewarn'd!)
> 
> Also...*sideways glance at the calendar*...happy Monday, all. Deepest apologies for the one-day delay. And, um. Well. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but between Thanksgiving and the fact that I still have a good 3/4 of my PB&J Epifest fic to write, the _next_ update will be on **Dec. 3**. 
> 
> MVPs of the Week: gutsybitsies, because she is a fantastic beta who _also_ shared a NSFW Kent/Bitty/Kent snippet that just about slayed me; the OMGCP NaNo Discord group, who have the funniest conversations, really, they give me life; Julorean, for consistently checking up on me; beaniebaneenie, for being an awesome writing buddy; my sister, who spent the first half of this chapter yelling that I'd promised her fluff and humor, WHERE WAS THE FLUFF AND HUMOR, and then spent the last half laughing out loud, which was a balm to my soul; and, finally, ME, because last week was tough, and I still got a chapter out even though it was a day late. Go, self, go! ^^
> 
> Thanks also to every single person who has read this story, left kudos on it, or commented. _Especially_ if they commented, here or elsewhere, and _especially_ if they told me that this fic made them react out loud, and _**especially**_ if I haven't replied to you yet. You definitely left me a great comment, and I definitely squealed over it, and I just didn't have the time last week or the week before to reply in a manner that I felt was worthy of your words. Thank you so much, and I promise I'll get to you soon. ^^
> 
> You know, there's something really great about thinking of somebody reading something I wrote while they're on the bus, or chilling in their living room, or hanging in bed, and just laughing at loud at a line that _I_ laughed to write. I don't know. It's great. Y'all are great. I'm really thankful for all the folks who read this story, even if you don't say anything.
> 
> To any U.S. citizens out there, have a great Thanksgiving! Come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/), I'll probably be posting about cheesecake then. ^^


	8. the face we choose to miss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s eyes flicker between the two Parses and the two Bittles, noting how the Bittle in the mirror is curled protectively around the other-Jack, and the Bittle here in Jack’s living room is curled possessively around Parse—no, wait, other-Parse. Jack’s Parse is the one in the mirror.
> 
>  _Not your Parse, you idiot_ , a voice in his head points out, exasperated. _There isn’t a single universe where you got to keep him_.
> 
>  _That has to be wrong_ , another, quieter voice answers. _There has to be at least one. At least._
> 
> Jack thinks of it: a universe where he got to keep Kent Parson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers: thank you so much for your patience, and your kind words of encouragement. I really appreciated it these past weeks. I apologize for the delay, and I hope you find the wait was worth it. Hopefully, we'll be back to our semi-regular updates, should all go well. ^^
> 
> Content warnings: Alcohol consumption and passive-aggressiveness. Other than that, let me know if I need to give a heads-up for something! :)
> 
> Thanks as always to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for being an awesome, awesome beta. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Face_we_choose_to_miss_%E2%80%94). ^^

\---

 

 _The Face we choose to miss —_  
_Be it but for a Day_  
_As absent as a Hundred Years,_  
_When it has rode away._

 

\---

 

Thanks to their late night, they don’t wake up until it’s past ten, upon which Kent calls room service and orders everything on the hotel brunch menu, while Eric groggily gets out of bed and shuffles into the shower. The food arrives right as he exits the restroom, and Kent tries and fails not to notice how adorable he looks in the oversized hotel bathrobe, one of the sleeves slipping artlessly off his shoulder.

 _I’m so fucked_ , Kent thinks, despondent.

“So,” Eric says a few minutes after they settle down to eat, sipping his coffee, his tone carefully neutral, “you’re friends with Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent rolls his shoulders as he shoves more waffles into his mouth. “Yep. Good friends. We’re practically like brothers. Which is why I got invited to his place to hang for the summer. Platonically, of course. Like the friends we are.” Kent pauses. “Did I mention how very not-sexual everything between us is?”

The corner of Eric’s mouth ticks up before he forces his face back to its earlier, unnaturally blank expression—or, well, he _tries_. But Kent can see the glint of amusement in his eyes, the lessening of the tension in his frame, and gives himself a mental high-five. Score one for Team Parson. “No, honey, I got that, though if you’re trying to get me not to worry, you might be protesting just a little too much.”

Kent shrugs. “Eh, just covering my bases.” And if he makes a joke out of it, maybe Eric won’t pick up on his lingering feelings for Jack. God knows it’s already going to be complicated enough as it is, what with Eric’s Kent having to go and find his pathetic ass a significant other.

Not to mention that _he_ has to find _other-Jack_ somebody, too. Jesus, this whole thing’s going to be an epic cluster-fuck. Kent dumps more fake maple syrup onto his waffle stack and tries not to think about it.  

Too bad Eric’s hell-bent on ruining his plans. Sighing, Eric says, “I wasn’t even talking about your Zimmermann—I mean, your _world’s_ Zimmermann,” he corrects, scowling slightly. “I was talking about the Zimmermann from this world.” He gives his coffee a stir, pointedly not looking up. “As you heard last night, he and my Kenny aren’t exactly on the best of terms. I don’t see how you managed to turn that around in the space of three weeks.”

Oh. Right. Kent sucks on his teeth, shrugging. “Honestly? I have no fucking clue how I managed that, either. I mean, I literally just started talking to him like normal, and we went from there.”

“Hmm,” Eric says, crossing his arms.

God, Kent is really starting to hate passive-aggression, and that is a _fact_. “Okay, look, what is your problem with Jack?” he demands, deciding to tackle the elephant in the room, since ignoring it obviously wasn’t working. “He’s a great guy, he’s one of my best friends, he—other-you is completely in love with him, he can’t be _that_ bad.”

Eric finally looks up at him, all affronted outrage. “Excuse me, but other-me is also a goddamn idiot who goes by the name of _Bitty_. I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him. And we’re not talking about _that_ Jack, we’re talking about _this_ Jack, who is probably completely different—”

Kent scoffs. “I don’t know, he seems pretty much the same to me—”

Eric has the gall to roll his eyes. “Well, what would you know, you’ve been here less than a month—”

“Yeah, but I know Jack,” Kent insists. “I’d know him anywhere.”

Eric goes still. “Then you should know that he’s a piece of shit,” he says, low and vehement and startlingly vicious, his eyes dark and heated.

Kent rears back, shocked. “Eric?”

Eric stares back for a moment before collecting himself, looking away and exhaling hard. “I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out and covering Kent’s hand with his own, a warm and grounding touch. Kent has to remind himself not to turn his hand over and link their fingers together. “I don’t—I don’t trust Jack Zimmermann, alright? He’s not—I don’t want him anywhere near my Kent, and I don’t want him near you. Your world’s Jack might be… _nice_ enough,” he says grudgingly, “and I’m glad to hear it. But this one is—” Eric sighs. “He’s different. He hurt my Kenny.”

Kent bites his lip. “That’s not—it’s probably—”

“Your fault?” Eric smiles bitterly. “That’s what my Kent says, too. Every single time, he always, always says it’s his fault. It’s never Jack, it’s always him, and you know what? That’s bullshit.”

Kent shakes his head. “It was both of us,” he insists, pulling his hand out from under Eric’s. “We hurt each other. We weren’t good for each other, I’ll admit it, but we—we’ve changed, okay? We got our shit together and we’re friends again, and it’s—it’s great.” He’s not explaining it very well, he knows. He doesn’t know _how_ to explain it, what it means to him to be Jack Zimmermann’s friend again instead of his antagonist. “Besides, most of the worst of what we did to each other was years ago. Things are different now, and—”

Eric is shaking his head. As if he’s got any right to talk; _he’s_ not a Jack Zimmermann expert, unlike Bitty. Unlike Kent.

“Look, have you ever even talked to the guy?” Kent asks, irritated.

“Yes,” Eric says flatly. “A year ago at the Olympics.”

“Oh.” Kent absorbs the information silently. He’d spent most of the Olympics chirping Jack and flirting with everybody on Team Norway just to annoy Hucky. Other-him probably spent it flirting with Eric, and Eric apparently spent at least part of it speaking to Jack. “…I take it didn’t go well?”

Eric shoots him a look. “What do you think, sweetie?”

Kent winces. Ooh, boy. “Um—”

Eric shakes his head again. “It doesn’t matter, Kent.” He presses his lips together. “No matter how I feel about it, we’re going to have to talk to him. And at least we have you to help things go smoothly.”

“Right,” Kent says, clearing his throat, and decidedly changes the topic.

They finish their breakfast, not in silence, but with small-talk, the both of them experts in speaking while not saying anything at all. Kent’s a bit surprised at how familiar it feels, but then he remembers that this is how most of his conversations with Bitty go. He’s going to have to get used to that again.

Kent swallows his completely fucking irrational disappointment alongside the last of his waffles.

Then Eric shoves the rest of his pancakes at him. “Eat up, baby,” he says absent-mindedly; he’s scrolling through his phone, probably checking up on his Pinterest page like he does every breakfast. “You have to put the weight back on.”

Kent takes the pancakes without a word, ignoring the flush in his cheeks, ignoring how Eric stiffens a few minutes later when he remembers who Kent really is.

“Um—” Eric withdraws his foot underneath the table where it was gently caressing Kent’s ankle.

“These are good pancakes,” Kent says around a messy mouthful. “Not as good as yours, but still good.”

A beat of silence. Then Eric cracks a small smile. “Thanks, hon, but you will literally eat anything, so that’s not exactly a glowing referral.”

Kent widens his eyes in mock outrage. “Well, excuse me, but it is way too early for you to be throwing shade at my taste in food—”

Eric chirps him right back, and the weird tension in the room dissipates, though it doesn’t completely disappear. It won’t disappear until he’s gone, Kent knows, but he drinks in the sight of Eric’s giggling face and decides to savor this while he can.

 

\---

 

Bitty really wishes this whole “alternate universes colliding” situation came with a manual, or at least an etiquette guide. How _is_ one supposed to treat your alternate-self’s boyfriend, when they also happen to be the alternate-self of your boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend?

By making small-talk, apparently, and steering clear of topics any more intimate than the weather, or their respective opinions on various draft picks and trades made this past season—though at least _that’s_ enough to keep both Kent Parson and Jack Zimmermann occupied, no matter what universe they’re from.

“Holy fuck, you’re telling me McClasky traded Bowden _and_ Petersson? What the fuck are the Aeros thinking?” Parse demands, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“That’s not how it went down in your universe?” Jack asks, gulping down his coffee.

Parse snorts. “Oh, hell, no.” He pauses, scraping his plate idly with his fork. “Though of course, everyone’s been too busy freaking out over the fact that the Pens traded Crosby.”

Jack’s mouth drops open. “They _what?”_ he shouts, letting out a string of increasingly garbled curses in both French and English, but Bitty only narrows his eyes.

“You’re bluffing,” Bitty pronounces.

Parse glances at him for a second, his face coolly impassive, before Jack barks a sentence at him in angry Quebecois and his façade cracks. Parse laughs, open-mouthed and mischievous. “Fuck, man, you should’ve seen your face,” he says, slapping the table as Jack scowls and tosses a wadded up napkin at his head, which he easily dodges.

Bitty drinks his coffee, considering him. Parse seems…a lot happier than he did last night. Still a bit distant, especially physically, and especially when Bitty compares him to the actual Parse from this universe, who was always clapping Jack on the shoulder, or nudging him with his knee, even occasionally slinging an arm around Bitty’s shoulders, or ruffling his hair to annoy him. Alternate-Parse has carefully refrained from doing any of that, even before the reveal, which is really one of the things that really ought to have tipped Bitty off that something was up. But he’s certainly not as tense as he was before, and Bitty wonders if that’s because he’s figured out how to get home.

Later, when Bitty asks as much, Parse just scowls at the sponge in his hand.

“Kind of,” he says, cracking his neck. “I sort of have to find the other-me a significant other before we can switch back.”

“You what?” Jack says, furrowing his brows.

“I gotta find him somebody. He wanted to fall in love. That’s what he spent his wish on,” Parse says, shrugging.

“Oh,” Jack answers, looking a little lost, and Bitty clears his throat.

“Good luck with that,” he says. “This Parse’s track record with dating is—”

“A fucking train wreck? No, I figured,” Parse says, snorting. “I mean, before I met you, I—” He snaps his mouth shut, a blush blooming on his cheeks. “I mean, before I met Eric,” he corrects, avoiding both Bitty’s and Jack’s eyes, “I could never stay with anyone longer than two months. I figured other-me is mostly the same. Commitment issues, you know?”

“I see,” Bitty says slowly, and he does. Bitty watches Jack carefully dry a plate, his shoulders tense. Commitment issues were the last of Kent Parson’s problems, at least in the sense that this Parse was trying to make a joke of. The real problem was that he’d already been committed—to Jack Zimmermann.

But not anymore, apparently, not if he was looking to fall in love with somebody else.

Bitty’s mildly alarmed to find that he’s upset about this.

 _You idiot, this is what you’ve wanted for years. A Kent Parson who’s moved on is a good thing!_ he tells himself.

 _But has he really?_ his gut feeling answers.

 _Well, he’s going to have to, if he wants to come home_ , Bitty tells himself, and even his gut can’t argue with that. Bitty clears his throat. “And how about the other Kent Parson?” he asks. “How’s he doing fulfilling your wish?”

Parse’s mouth curls into a grimace before he straightens it out. “Not so well. I kinda wished for something…complicated.”

Bitty and Jack exchange a glance. “Complicated how?” Jack asks.

“I wished that my world’s Jack Zimmermann could be as happy as I was when I was with Eric,” Parse says quickly, and then he turns the water on full blast, dousing the dishes.

 _Oh_ , Bitty thinks. _Oh, **you’re** not over him, either, are you? Not all the way._

“Parse,” Jack says, reaching a hand out before he thinks better of it, dropping it to his side.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Parse replies, even-voiced and still not looking at either of them. “But I’m not giving Eric up, and that’s that.”

Jack startles. “Parse, I would never ask you to—”

“Good. So then write me up a list of people you think you might’ve ended up with, and we can pass it along this afternoon,” Parse says, then he shuts the water off and whirls around to face him. “Jack, I—I want to go _home_ ,” he says, fierce and sudden, his eyes a stormy blue-gray. “I don’t want to be stuck here.”

Jack swallows. “Of course, Parse. I’ll do anything I can to help,” he says, his voice hoarse, and oh, God, oh, God. Bitty sees it clear as day: Jack Zimmermann’s not over Kent Parson, either.

 _Lord help me, this is a **disaster**_ , Bitty thinks, dismayed.

The thought keeps recurring throughout the day, probably because it doesn’t stop being true.

 

\---     

 

At five o’clock sharp, the three of them assemble in the living room and wait for the glass to freeze over. Mirror-Parse told the Parse who’s trapped here how to cast the spell, too, but they’re still waiting for Richards to ship the piece of the Stanley Cup necessary for Parse to try it. ’Til then they’re stuck waiting by the windows like a ’90s sitcom protagonist waiting by the phone.

At least the other side seems as eager to see them, though, and the wall of windows turns white and cracks to reveal the interior of a cozy little apartment, where five people sit—three crammed onto a couch, and two on sitting on armchairs that’ve been dragged over.

“Kenny!” one of them shouts, a pretty young woman with a blond pixie cut that looks startlingly like Parse. “Oh, thank God, you’re alive!”

“What the fuck, Carrie, of course I’m alive,” Parse says, breaking out into a grin, his eyes a little teary.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that, bro? You’re stuck in the darkest timeline, who knows what might’ve happened to you!” she yells.

Bitty would be paying more attention to that, if it weren’t for the fact that, with the exception of Carrie Parson, he actually _knows_ all the people in the living room.

 _“Chowder?”_ he says. “What are you doing there?” And Caitlin, too, but if Chowder’s there, then Bitty’s not _that_ surprised to see her. It’s good that they’re still together.

Chowder waves from his position in the green armchair to the left of Eric. “Hi, Eric!” he says cheerfully. “Alternate-Kent’s been telling me that you and I are still friends over there. Which is great, by the way, Carrie is super pissed that you apparently don’t even know her.”

“Hey!” Carrie says.

Chowder ignores her, though his smile does widen mischievously. “I can’t believe we played hockey together! That’s so cool, man!” He looks over at Jack. “And, wow, playing on the same team as Jack Zimmermann! That’s an honor, too. It’s nice to meet you, man.” He nods affably at Jack.

“Nice to meet you, too…Chowder,” Jack says slowly. He turns to Carrie. “Nice to see you, too, Carrie,” he says, his voice warm.

Carrie just stares at him. “Hey, Zimms,” she says after a careful pause. She glances over at Bitty, then at Eric, who’s sitting next to her with his arms crossed. “Eric, dude, what the fuck, there’s two of you. I’m really freaking out,” she says to him out of the corner of her mouth.

“Of course there’s two of me, there’s two of you, too,” Eric snarks back, not bothering to be quiet.

“Bro, don’t remind me,” she says, shuddering. “I mean, I was prepared for there being two Kennys, because of the universe-hopping and everything, but two of _you?”_ She faces Bitty and waves at him. “Hey, I’m Carrie Parson, I was supposed to be your best friend, but your universe screwed the connection up. Hope you don’t mind taking care of our Kenny, even though he’s a goddamn idiot who got himself kidnapped by the Stanley Cup.”

“Hey!” Parse protests.

Bitty smiles politely. “It’s no trouble, Carrie,” he answers. “It’s lovely to meet you. Your brother’s been a perfect guest in our home.” He pats Jack on the knee and lets his hand linger.

Carrie tilts her head at that. “Huh. What the hell, you really _did_ shack up with Zimms, didn’t you?” she says.

“That’s so weird,” Chowder adds. “I wouldn’t have imagined that. Like, of all the things that don’t change about Eric, it’s the fact that he’s really into NHL players?”

“Must be the butts,” Carrie mutters.

“Good Lord,” Bitty says, flushing, and Carrie laughs at him.

“Oh, my God, your face!” she cackles.

“Hey!” Eric says, equally red.

Bitty clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m Bitty,” he mutters.

 _“Bitty?”_ Carrie laughs so hard her shoulders shake. “Bro, that makes you sound like a preschooler, what the fuck.”

Bitty’s smiles freezes in place.

Carrie blinks. “Oh, shit—too soon? Oh, right, you hate it when strangers act too friendly, and we’re strangers now, oh, my God. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of you,” she says, and turns to Eric. “I apologize to you, too, Eric, you know I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

“Oh, no offense taken. Your commentary is flawless as always, honey,” Eric says cheerily, patting her hand. “By the way, have I mentioned that you’re my favorite person recently? Because you are.”

Carrie’s gaze bounces between Eric and Bitty, and then she raises a questioning brow at Parse. “The fuck, Kenny?” she stage-whispers.

“What? It _does_ make me sound like a toddler,” Eric says, and mirror-Parse rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve made your distaste for it known,” he says. “Can we get back to the main point?”

Bitty clears his throat. “ _Anyway_ ,” he tries again, “I’m Bitty. This is Jack. Yes, we’re together. Yes, we were teammates with Chowder. And yes, this is all very strange and new and we should do our best to be civil about it.”

“Sorry,” Carrie says, biting her lip again.

“I’ll say,” Caitlin says at the same time, smiling wryly from her armchair, and reaches over and links her and Carrie’s hands together, squeezing in reassurance.

“Hey, Cait,” Parse says from Jack’s other side, smiling at them. “You been taking care of my Carrie-girl?”

“Of course,” she says easily.

Mirror-Parse suddenly elbows Carrie from his place in the middle of the couch. “Yo, Carrie, give other-me Cait’s number so he can track her down for you in my universe, too.”

Bitty blinks. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Caitlin Farmer, are you telling me you’re dating _Carrie?”_

“Uh, yes?” she smiles at him uncertainly before raising her brows. “Oh, right, you went to Samwell over there. You probably knew me from when I was dating Lardo.”

“You dated _Lardo?”_ Bitty says, shocked.

“Who the hell is Lardo?” Eric asks, nonplussed.

“You dated _Lardo?”_ Bitty repeats.

“Uh, yeah? It’s how I knew Jack,” Caitlin says.

“Oh, right, you knew Zimms. Forgot about that,” Carrie mutters. “And Lardo’s her ex. Nice girl, she painted that one piece we’ve got hanging in the bathroom.”

Eric wrinkles his nose. “Oh, my God, they called a _girl_ Lardo? What’s wrong with them?”

“It was short for Larissa,” Caitlin explains.

“Hockey nicknames,” Chowder says sagely. “Always weird, but weirdly fitting, too?”

“I know, right?” mirror-Parse says, and he and Chowder fist-bump.

“This is _weird_ ,” Bitty says. His only consolation is that Jack looks similarly shell-shocked. “You mean you’re not dating—” He cuts himself off.

Carrie narrows her eyes at him. “She’s not dating who?” she says suspiciously. “Who’s my competition? Am I going to be home-wrecking? Mama didn’t raise no home-wreckers.”

“Carrie-girl, you should still at least talk to her,” both Parses say.

“She’s good for you,” Parse says from next to Jack.

“She makes you smile more than anybody else I’ve ever seen,” mirror-Parse adds.

“Kenny,” Carrie says, exasperated.

“What? It’s true!” both of them reply in unison.

“Oh, my god, this is so weird,” Carrie groans, putting a hand over her face. “How’re you supposed to know which one of you I’m talking to? There’s two of you!” She shakes her head, then points at Parse who’s sitting in Jack’s living room. “Okay, Kenny, you’re going to be Kent or Kenny from now on. Other-Kent, I love you, bro, but for now we’ll call you Parse. Eric, you’ll be Eric, and Bitty, you’ll be Bitty. Capiche?”

Everybody nods.

“Alright,” Carrie says, nodding. “Let’s get down to business, then.” She looks at both Kent and Parse. “How are we going to switch you two back?”

 

\---

 

Two hours and three failed Tinder profiles later, Carrie has broken out the tequila, and she and Eric are draped over each other on the couch, commiserating. Caitlin’s a lightweight and has already fallen asleep, and Chowder and Parse are watching proceedings with an amused eye.

“Oh, God, we’re so screwed,” Carrie moans. “We have to find _Zimms_ somebody? _Zimms?_ Do you know how long it took for Kenny and him to start their thing back in the day? It took, like, a whole _year_ , and Kenny is as easy as it gets.”

“I knoooooow,” Eric slurs back.

“Ugh, don’t even start. Didn’t we agree I didn’t wanna know?” She sighs. “But anyway, Zimms is really, really fucking dense, so there you go.”

“Hey!” Bitty protests.

Carrie shoots him a look. “Bro, tell me, how long did it take him to ask you out?”

Bitty frowns. “That is none of your business,” he says.

Carrie snaps her fingers at him. “Wow, longer than a year. That really raises my confidence, Bitty, truly,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. This is going to be a fucking disaster. Zimms, why you gotta be this way?” she complains, looking at the list of possible people that Jack came up with. There’re only three names on it. “I bet these are all blondes.”

Jack blushes. “Uh.”

“Mmhm,” Carrie says, nodding exaggeratedly. “Called it.”

On Eric’s other side, Parse is snickering quietly. Eric shoves his feet into his lap, and Parse starts digging his thumbs into his soles, Eric sighing comfortably. Bitty watches them, then notices that Kent is watching them, too.

Carrie turns to Parse, reaching across Eric to shove his shoulder. “You fucker, don’t laugh. You’re a fucking problem, too. How’re we going to find somebody for you? Eric’s taken, and so is Zimms, and—God, Eric’s taken _by_ Zimms, we’re so, so screwed.”

“Hey,” Parse says, “I can find people.”

“Yeah, but you’re shit at keeping them. Mostly ’cause the people you find are gold-diggers, or people who are in it for the fame, and you deserve better, so good riddance—”

“Hey, they’re not _all_ bad,” Parse protests.

“Baby,” Eric mumbles, flopping over so he can cuddle into Parse’s side. “The only one of your exes I liked was Sara.”

Carrie starts laughing. “What a liar! You once prayed she’d get trampled by bison. You hated her.”

“No, I was _jealous_ of her,” Eric corrects. “But I liked her as a person.”

“You were jealous? Why?” Kent asks, and Eric lifts his face from Parse’s shoulder to glare at him.

“Because she was smart, and gorgeous, and a very nice person, and only one year younger than you, and she was _dating_ you,” Eric says. “What if you’d decided you wanted to end up with her? I’d’ve been devastated.”

Kent squints at him. “Babe, didn’t I date her in, like, your freshman year?”

“And so?”

“I thought I was only a celebrity crush to you back then.”

“I’d still have been devastated,” Eric pronounces.

“Aww, babe,” Kent says, smiling as he leans forward.

“I need more tequila if you two are going to get mushy,” Carrie mutters. She nudges Chowder with an elbow. “Chris, get me more tequila, please.”

Chowder ambles away obediently, and Eric stands up after him, mumbling about making some margaritas. He sways precariously, and Parse steadies him with two hands on his waist until he gets his feet under him.

“Mm, thank you,” Eric says, stroking a hand through his hair. “I’ll be right back, baby,” and he leans down and kisses him, messy but familiar.

Parse’s eyes go wide with surprise. “Um,” he says, pulling back and looking guiltily through the mirror, his eyes bouncing between Bitty, Jack, and Kent.

Eric follows his gaze and settles on Kent. “Oh!” he says, and he stumbles halfway across the room before stopping and blowing a kiss at the windows. “Sorry, Kenny,” he slurs. “I’d kiss you, too, if I could.”

“‘Too’?” Carrie repeats, snarky.

Eric huffs. “Well, there’s two of them. How’m I supposed to resist?”

Carrie claps her hands over her ears. “Blah, blah, blah! Didn’t ask, so don’t tell!”

“You asked, though!” Eric says, affronted, and oh, God, is this what Bitty’s like when he’s drunk? No wonder the team made so much fun of him at kegsters.

“Don’t want to hear it!” Carrie says, and Eric sticks his tongue at her before heading to the kitchen.

As soon as he’s gone, Carrie turns her head and looks straight at Bitty. “Bitty,” she says seriously, “Zimms is treating you right, yeah?”

Bitty blinks. “Of course!” he says, annoyed.

“Good,” she says decisively. She narrows her eyes at Jack. “You continue treating him right, y’hear? That’s—that’s my best friend.”

Jack nods. “Of course, Carrie,” he says, holding her gaze. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods.

“You treat Parse right, too, okay?” she says, and Parse splutters.

“Carrie, we’re not like that!” he says.

She waves a hand. “I meant as friends,” she replies, keeping her eyes on Jack’s. “Zimms wasn’t—he wasn’t a good friend to you after everything went down, and I know you—you missed that, too.” She leans forward and points at Jack. “Don’t hurt him, okay? I know he can do stupid shit, and that he says mean things, but he’s—he’s my Kenny, too.” Her gray-green eyes fill up with tears. “Don’t hurt him, Zimms,” she pleads.

Bitty feels his stomach twist.

“I won’t,” Jack replies. “Carrie-girl, I’m sorry, I promise I’ll do better than before. You don’t have to worry.”

“Jack,” Parse says, his face open and vulnerable. He swallows hard and clasps his hands together.

Kent, on the other hand, is looking at his feet, his arms crossed and his knuckles white, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay,” Carrie says after a moment, rubbing her forearm across her eyes. “Okay.”

Jack cracks a smile at her. “You know, the other you gave me this talk already, too.”

“She did?” Parse says, surprised.

“Good for her,” Carrie says, fierce. “I’m glad. Somebody’s gotta look after this dumbass.” She shakes Parse’s shoulder, then turns to Kent. “And you! Don’t do anything stupid.”

Kent forces a laugh. “Like what?”

She tilts her head in Jack’s direction and raises a pointed brow.

Kent’s jaw clenches and he leans forward in his seat. “Come off it, Carrie,” he says, his voice low. “I would never fucking cheat on Eric, and you know it.”

“Good,” Carrie says for the third time in as many minutes. “Just making sure you remember what’s at stake.”

“Carrie—”

“It’s Zimms,” she shoots back. “Zimms has _always_ made you fucking stupid. And I don’t want you to—Eric’s my best fucking friend. Don’t ask me to choose between you and him, alright? That’s all I’m asking, Kenny. For you to be careful.”

Kent opens his mouth, but it’s Parse who answers. “There’s nothing to be careful about,” he tells her. “I would never make a move on Jack, and Jack would never make a move on me, and at this point I don’t think your Kent’s capable of making moves on anybody but Eric. Have you seen how gone this guy is on him?”

“Oh, God, you don’t even know,” Carrie says, relaxing enough to laugh a little.

Parse cracks a smile. “There you go. Kent loves Eric, and Jack loves Bitty, and there’s nothing to worry about.” He reels her in and places a tender kiss to her forehead. “Carrie-girl, everything’s gonna be alright. I promise.”

“Ugh.” She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her face to his shoulder. “It’s not,” she says, muffled. “You can’t even make a good Tinder profile.”

“What was wrong with my Tinder profile?” Parse says, insulted.

“Which one?” Carrie says, snorting. “You wanted to use nothing but work-out selfies for your photos,” she says accusingly.

“Hey! They get the job done,” Parse protests.

“They do if you want to get _laid._ Kenny—I mean, Parse, come on, we’re trying to get you _hitched_. We’re trying to find you an Eric,” Carrie says.

“Um, but there’s literally only one Eric,” Parse says.

Carrie jabs a finger in Bitty’s direction.

Parse glances at him and flushes a little, and Bitty blinks in surprise. That’s a new reaction. “Okay,” he says, “there’s one of him per universe, and he’s taken in both of them. I don’t think I’m gonna top that, Carrie.”

“We don’t have to top it, we’ve just gotta equal it,” Carrie says. “And thank God Eric’s here to keep you in line.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Parse says, rolling his eyes.

“I heard my name,” Eric says, walking back into the room, five different margarita glasses balanced in his arms, Chowder following with another in hand, plus a bottle of tequila and a salt shaker.

“Why’d you make so many?” Carrie says.

“Two are for you, two are for me, and this last one’s for Ke—Parse,” Eric says, setting down his glasses on the coffee table. “Carrie, where are your coasters?”

“In the kitchen,” she answers, taking a glass and downing half its contents. “God, I love you.”     

“Love you, too,” Eric says easily. He looks around and brightens when Chowder hands him a bunch of coasters. “Chowder! You read my mind!”

“Well, it looked like it was going to be one of those nights,” Chowder says knowingly. “Should I put some Adele on?”

“No, no, we’re good,” Eric says, then plops himself down in Parse’s lap. “What were you talking about?”

“How Parse is a fucking idiot with nonexistent standards who doesn’t know how to do relationships.”

“Oh.” Eric sighs, burying his face in Parse’s neck. “I thought it might be that. Baby, you really gotta learn to date. You just—you gotta _expect_ more, you know?”

“Hey, I know how to date!” Parse says. His hand rubs up and down Eric’s back. Bitty doesn’t think he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Eric shakes his head. “You don’t,” he says resolutely. “You think sex is transact—transition—tra—you think you have to put out in order to get treated well. You think you have to buy people stuff in order to get them to stay. And you _don’t_. You don’t have to do any of that. You just have to be you. The _real_ you.”

Parse smiles bitterly. “Eric, I hate to break it to you, but the real me is not that great.”

Eric snorts. “Liar. You know how I knew I was in love with you?” He raises his head and looks right at Kent. “Kenny, baby, tell him how I knew I was in love with you.”

Bitty blinks, surprised. He didn’t think—well, he didn’t think Eric was aware of how he was acting, that in his drunkenness he was conflating both Kents by accident. And maybe he’s doing that, yes, but he’s certainly aware that there’s _two_ of them. He just…doesn’t seem to want to try and treat them differently right now.

Kent drops his frown, surprised, too. “Oh. Uh. I was talking about Kit and Purrs,” he answers.

Parse stares. “You…were talking about your cats.”

“Uh-huh. He sounded like a complete dork,” Eric says, his eyes half-lidded and fond, and oh, Bitty seen that look on his face. It’s what he looks like when he looks at _Jack_.

Speaking of Jack, Jack is just watching Parse and Eric and the way they’re curled up together, his eyes intent. Bitty nudges his hand up against his.

 _You doing okay?_ he asks with a tilt of his head when Jack looks in his direction.

Jack shrugs. _I’m fine._

Bitty squeezes his hand. _Okay, honey_. He lets the issue drop, but keeps their hands linked.

“So you see,” Eric rambles, “you’ve gotta be _you_. And you have to pick somebody _nice_. Somebody who’s going to treat you right. I don’t want you to end up with a piece of shit who never returns your calls and makes you think you have to be responsible for everything.” He pointedly doesn’t look in Jack’s direction.

Which is fine. Bitty glares extra hard at him anyway.

“Wow, Eric, tell us how you really feel,” Carrie says, deadpan.

“Lay off, Carrie, he’s just looking out for his boyfriend,” Chowder says reasonably, ignoring the tension in the room.

Eric brightens. “Actually, he’s not my boyfriend,” he says, self-satisfied.

Bitty raises a brow, confused. That’s certainly not what it looks like to _him_.

Carrie snorts, evidently thinking along similar lines. “What the hell? What do you mean he’s not your—” She catches sight of Eric’s Cheshire cat grin, Kent’s blushing face, Parse’s wry smile. “Oh, my God,” she says, standing on the couch cushions, “oh, my God, oh, my God, you didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” Jack asks, brows furrowed.

“I did,” Eric replies.

Carrie whirls to look at Kent. “And?” she shouts.

Kent bites his lip, but even that’s not enough to hide his smile. “I said yes.”

“He’s my fiancé now,” Eric declares smugly.

 _Oh_ , Bitty thinks, his mind going blank.

Carrie starts shrieking and jumping up and down on the couch. “You guys! You guys, you guys, oh, my God, oh, my God! You’re getting hitched!” she yells, pulling Eric up to jump with her.

“We’re getting hitched,” Kent affirms, laughing, and no wonder he was so happy today. “Come hell or high water.” He winks at Eric, who giggles tipsily and blows him another kiss.

“Kenny! Kenny, you’re getting married!” Carrie yells. She high-fives Chowder, who pulls Eric into a bear hug. “Oh, my God, did you tell Mom?” Carrie asks.

Kent shakes his head. “Um, kinda stuck in an alternate universe, so no,” he says dryly.

“Dude!” she says, smacking Parse. “Call Mom, oh, my God, she needs to know.”

“Shouldn’t we wait?” Parse says, standing to the side and smiling, but Bitty thinks there’s something about it that looks uncertain, lost. His expression matches what Bitty’s feeling, actually. After all, his alternate-self was getting married? To _Parse?_ He and Jack hadn’t even—well, they’d discussed it, of course, but they both agreed they wanted to wait. Bitty isn’t even twenty-five yet.

And yet there Eric is, happy and certain and completely sure about his decision in a way that Bitty’s rarely sure about anything.

“Should we wait, baby?” Eric says, looking through the windows at Kent like he’s got eyes only for him.

“Probably, but I kinda don’t want to,” Kent confesses. “I wish I could be there with you, but, God, do I want to tell everybody. I want everyone who matters to know.” He hesitates. “Just—maybe hold off on the press announcement for a bit?”

“Sugar, of course,” Eric says, placing a hand against the window. “We’ll wait ’til you’re back for that.”

“But you gotta tell Mom,” Carrie insists. “We’ll just use Parse to talk if we have to, but you can’t not _tell_ her. And Mama B! What’ll she say, oh, my God, she’s been waiting for you to make an honest man out of Eric for _forever_. You can’t leave her in the dark!”

“Okay,” Kent says, laughing. “Okay.” He turns to Eric. “Let’s do this?” he asks.

“We’re doing this,” Eric says, grinning back.

Through the mirror, Bitty meets Parse’s carefully neutral gaze and squeezes Jack’s hand tighter.

 

\---

 

Kent watches through the windows as his alternate-self— _Parse_ , he reminds himself, which is a little confusing, too, but “other-him” started sounding really weird after a while, so whatever—uses his cell phone to call his mom. Carrie’s already composing a message to her and Eric’s group chat with their friends, Eric’s providing helpful commentary, and Chowder’s typing one up for the Aces’ betting pool.

“Mags is splitting the pot with me, I guess,” Chowder says.

Kent raises a brow. “Splitting it? I didn’t know you guys had overlapping days.”

“Oh, Maggie called the date, but I bet that Eric would be the one to propose,” Chowder replies absent-mindedly.

Eric snorts. “Insider information. Doesn’t count.”

“Nope,” Chowder says sunnily. “I called it way back in February. You didn’t even buy the ring until last month.”

Eric makes a face, and Carrie snorts. “That’s true,” she says.

Kent looks at her. “Oh, my fucking God,” he accuses. “You _knew_.”

Carrie rolls her eyes. “Well, duh.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” he demands.

“What, and ruin the surprise? Hell, no.” She turns to Eric. “Did he cry?”

“Of course he cried,” Eric says dryly. “I cried, too.”

Kent turns his face to the side to hide his smile, and accidentally makes eye contact with Jack.

 _Oh, shit_ , he thinks, but it’s too late to look away now. He’d kinda forgotten he and Bitty were even there, to be honest.

“Congratulations,” Jack says quietly, and Kent stares.

“Uh, yeah,” he says eventually. “Thanks.”

Bitty stands abruptly, and Kent notices that Jack’s got a white-knuckled grip on his hand. Shit, this whole thing must be fucking awkward and awful for them both, but especially for Jack. Kent would’ve hated it if he’d had to watch Jack get congratulated on his engagement to Bitty.

“We’re just going to head to bed,” Bitty says determinedly. “Give y’all some privacy.”

Kent clears his throat. “Um, thanks. I can—I can go to a hotel room tomorrow, give you guys some spa—”

“No,” Jack says vehemently.

Kent blinks. “No?”

“No,” Jack repeats. He looks over at Parse. “I want—I have to make sure he gets home safe.” He looks at Kent, earnest, beseeching. “Please.”

And Kent, like he always does when Jack gives him that look, says, “Okay.”

 

\---

 

When Kent’s mom picks up, she says, “Kenny, I sent you a package in the mail. There were these little cat sweaters on sale at this thrift store, I think they’d look great on Purrs and Kit—”

Parse clears his throat and holds out the phone in Kent’s direction, and Kent looks up puzzled, before realizing—oh, is _he_ supposed to be the one to talk? “Hey, Ma,” he says, “that’s—that’s great. Thanks, I’m sure they’ll love ’em.”

There’s a pause. Then she replies, “Kent, baby, is something the matter? You sound a bit hoarse? Are you coming down with something? Did you catch a—”

“No, Ma, I—well, you see, I—um—” Oh, shit, he’s getting teary-eyed, he can _feel_ it.

Eric smiles gently at him and takes over, thank God. “Hi, Mama Parse,” he says, “It’s Eric. I’ve got a real important question to ask you.” He clears his throat. “May I have your son’s hand in marriage? He’s already said yes, by the way, but I wanted to ask you, too.”

Silence. Then his mom says, breathless, “Oh, my God.” She sounds exactly like Carrie does, or Carrie sounds exactly like her, and Kent feels like his grin’s about to crack open his face, he’s smiling so hard, even if it’s a little wobbly. “Oh, my God, Kenny, are you—are you two getting married?”

“Yes, Ma,” he says, and his mom starts laughing and crying and congratulating them, too, Carrie interrupting, and all of them talking all over each other.

The call to Eric’s mom goes just as well, the only difference being that Suzanne Bittle starts planning the wedding then and there.

“Oh, my goodness, and we’re going to have to book the country club for next year—oh, dear, I hope they have an opening still. I really wish you’d have told me what you were planning sooner, Dicky—”

“Mother,” Eric says, embarrassed.

“Oh, I was thinking we’d have a long engagement, though,” Kent interrupts. “Wait until after Eric retires from skating.”

Eric looks at him, surprised. “Really?” he asks, skeptical. “You want to wait that long?”

Kent shrugs. “It’s just two or three years.”

“Well, we’ll talk about it,” Eric says, a stubborn set to his mouth that means he means to have his way. Which—usually Kent’s happy to let him have it, but he knows Eric’s trying for Olympic gold. Planning a wedding on top of that will just stress him out. Better save it for later.

 _Besides_ , a small corner of Kent’s mind points out, _do you want to advertise it while he’s still active? While **you’re** still active? You’ve seen what they say about Bitty here, and he’s not even **in** sports anymore. Do you really want that for Eric?_

No. No, he didn’t.

But he puts it out of his mind and watches Eric chat with his mom, chiming in every now and then with a “Yes, ma’am,” and “Of course, ma’am,” and “I love him more than anything, ma’am,” savoring the way Eric’s smile gets bigger and bigger until he’s nearly glowing.

Things continue in that vein until they hang up, and Chowder immediately announces that:

  1. In lieu of being angry at Mags, all the Aces have decided to hate Kent for losing them the bet, and Chowder for winning half of it.
  2. Chopper is demanding pics, or it didn’t happen.



“Oh,” Kent says, and Parse sighs and holds up his hand, palm up.

“Alright,” Parse says, “hand me the ring.”

Eric tosses him the ring box and Parse takes it out and slides it on. “Huh,” he says. “Perfect fit.”

“Well, I _was_ there when they fitted you for this year’s Stanley Cup ring,” Eric points out, sardonic.

Kent and Parse blink. “That was smart,” they say simultaneously.

Eric cracks a smile. “Thanks, honey, I try.”

Parse looks over at Kent. “What did you do?”

“Tied a string around his finger while he was asleep,” Kent admits.

Parse snorts. “Right, he sleeps like the dead.”

 _Do not get jealous, do not get jealous_ , he tells himself. And he’s not—at least not in the traditional, “another guy is hitting on my man” sense. No, he’s jealous in the “I can’t believe you get to watch my fiancé sleep while I’m stuck in an alternate universe” sort of way.

 _Fuck you, Stanley Cup_ , he thinks mutinously. _I’m throwing you in a vat of acid the next time I win you._

“I don’t sleep like the dead!” Eric protests.

“Bro, you totally do,” Carrie snorts, and Eric tilts his head at her, realizing something.

“Hey,” he says, grinning, “I’m going to be your brother for real now.”

Carrie blinks before grinning back. “Bro, you already are.” They hug again, laughing, and Chowder goes over and envelops them both.

Eric clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, “will you guys be—”

“Your Best Man and Best Woman?” Chowder says. “Way ahead of you, Eric.”

“I already picked the venue,” Carrie replies, gesturing broadly.

“FreeZone?” Eric asks.

“FreeZone,” Carrie says, and they clink together their empty margarita glasses.

“Is that the one with the karaoke? I like that one,” Chowder says, slinging an arm over Parse’s shoulder. “Hey, Cap, you should tell Swoops to bring you guys there, too. Gopher would get free drinks, easy.”

Kent and Parse look at each other. Considering that you could get drinks there by singing in just your underwear, he probably would.

Parse clears his throat and gets out from under Chowder’s arm. “Alright, it’s selfie time,” he says, holding up his left hand and flipping off his camera-phone, pasting on a big, shit-eating grin, exactly the way Kent himself would’ve done.

“Wait,” Eric murmurs, and he slips next to Parse, catching his chin in one hand and pulling him down so he’s kissing his cheek. Parse takes a picture, his grin softening into something both quieter and happier.

Kent knows the feeling.

“We’ll do it again when you’re back,” Eric promises Kent afterwards, holding a hand up to the glass.

Now that Jack and Bitty are gone, Kent lets himself reach back. “Okay,” he whispers. Eric smiles, and he lets himself believe that it’s enough.

 

\---

 

Eric wakes up the next morning curled around Kent Parson.

“Hey,” Kent whispers, pushing his hair back. “You feeling okay, buddy?”

“Mm,” Eric says, shaking his head. He’s got a pounding headache, the way he always does when he’s hungover. “You shouldn’t have let me drink so much,” he complains, burrowing against Kent’s familiar warmth.

Kent chuckles, careful not to do it too loudly or shake too much as he does so. “Sorry, man, but going against the combined forces of you _and_ Carrie was always something I was destined to lose at.” He passes Eric some aspirin and water, which Eric gratefully downs.

“I love you,” he says, fervent, and Kent freezes.

 _Oh_ , Eric thinks in sudden remembrance. _Not my Kenny_. His shoulders droop.

Kent clears his throat. “Love you, too, man,” and he ruffles Eric’s hair, the way Kent used to back when Eric was just his kid sister’s friend. Eric could never decide if he loved or hated those touches.

It’s easy to decide now. He tilts his head away and drags the comforter over his head.

“Shall I keep the blinds closed?” Kent—Parse—asks him.

“Mm.”

Parse moves off the bed, and Eric twists his new engagement ring around his finger and tries not to cry.

 

\---

 

Kent’s phone rings while he’s in the shower. It’s an unknown number, but the Aces’ staff have plenty of new people who call, and it could be important. Eric answers for him.

“Hi, you’ve reached Kent Parson’s phone,” he says. “Can I take a message?”

“Ah, yes, please, if you could,” a woman replies, sounding a little surprised. She has a New England accent, maybe upper-class Bostonian? Very polite-sounding, at any rate. “Um—is this—is this Eric?” she asks.

“Yes,” Eric replies, “were you looking for me?”  This occasionally happens, too, if the organization is trying to set something up amongst the WAGs, though usually it’s Maggie or Tina, Chopper’s wife, who starts the calling tree in that case, if the group text message is a bit too public for it.

“Oh, no, I just wanted to say hello. I’m Alicia Zimmermann,” the woman says.

It’s not something for the WAGs.

“Oh,” Eric replies, his mind going blank for a moment or two before he recovers. “How lovely to hear from you. Kent’s always spoken very highly of you.” And he has—but, then again, he’s also spoken highly of her son. Eric’s learned to be skeptical of Kenny’s opinions of the Zimmermanns.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Alicia says, her tone delicate, her words precise. “I just wanted to extend an invitation to a birthday party for my son, Jack. It’s going to be in Providence this Saturday. I can text Kent the address. We—that is, my husband and I—we would appreciate it if you and Kent could come, even just for an hour or two.”

“Of course,” Eric says, injecting warmth into his voice that he doesn’t feel. “Kent’s been looking forward to it. I think he’s already bought Jack a gift.”

“Really? That’s so kind of him, I’m—I’m so glad,” she says, and she sounds it. She sounds glad, and surprised, and on the verge of tears. Just from that alone, Eric would know there was history here, a story hidden deliberately out of sight.

He’s known Kenny for seven years now, though. Nobody needs to tell him the story of Jack Zimmermann. He’s seen the scars for himself.

“Tell me, what time do you want us to be there? I’ll bring a pie,” he says, because accepting this invitation was always the plan, and he’s the keeper of Kent’s answers now. He’s the number they’ll call in case of emergency, not Kent’s mom, not Carrie, and certainly not Bob or Alicia Zimmermann. Not anymore.

Eric keeps his voice pleasant and neutral and writes down her answers on the hotel notepad.

“We’ll see you there,” he promises, and then he hangs up.

 

\---

 

Turns out Parse _does_ have a gift for Jack—an ugly Aces Christmas sweater in a size too big, even though it’s August.

“I also got him this camera lens he really wanted, but it’s in my universe,” Parse says on their drive up that Saturday. It’s a good thing Boston’s not too far from Providence; Carrie’s promised to come and bail them out should everything go _that_ badly. “Besides, it’d probably be too weird to give it to him here; he hasn’t really talked photography at me, so I shouldn’t know anything about it. Better not to come off like a stalker. Things are going to be weird enough as it is.”

And ain’t that the honest truth? Eric gives a murmur of agreement and keeps a careful eye on Parse, noting how he keeps running a nervous hand through his hair. Part of Eric wants to tell him to turn the car around, they don’t have to do this; the rest of him would cheerfully shoot somebody in the kneecap if it meant Kenny could come home, and it tells the first part to shut up and let Parse keep driving.

They get there a little past one o’clock.

“Ready?” Parse asks, opening the door for Eric, a gentleman like always.

Eric takes his hand as he steps out of the car, and lets go only so he can wrap his arm around Parse’s waist and pull him close. He puts on his brightest, most charming smile, the one he saves for the kiss-and-cry after he skates a program. “I’m ready,” he says.

Parse pulls in a shaky breath, his ribs expanding against Eric’s palm, and leans in closer. “Awesome,” Parse says, then adds, “let’s go do this thing.”

They step forward together.

 

\---

 

Jack Zimmermann isn’t surprised when Shitty shows up unannounced at his door that Saturday. “My mother put you up to this, didn’t she?” he says, stepping aside to let Shitty and the three dozen white and blue balloons he’s holding onto inside his apartment.

“What can I say? When Alicia Zimmermann calls, a bro must answer,” Shitty says, shrugging. “Happy surprise birthday party, man. Care to help me set it up?”

Jack laughs and does as Shitty asks.

 

\---

 

Most of the guests arrive at noon, though Jack knows people will keep coming at least until two p.m., if not three. It’s mostly a mix of his SMH crew and the Falcs teammates and staff that he’s close to—he sees George and her wife talking with Lardo and Ransom, and Holster is helping Marty mix drinks (mostly non-alcoholic for now, though Rexer is trying his hardest to get a non-virgin Bloody Mary, since he’s just turned twenty-one). Thirdy and Carrie Robinson are chatting with his dad, and when Jack walks by, he overhears Dex offering to look at his mom’s car to see why it’s making a weird noise.

“Hi, Mom,” he says, bending to give her a kiss, and Alicia Zimmermann lights up.

“Jack! Are you enjoying your party?” she asks, hopeful, and Jack smiles and tells her truthfully that he is.

“That’s good,” she says, looking at the front door again.

“Expecting a special guest?” he asks her, teasing, and she bites her lip.

“Hopefully,” she murmurs, and Jack narrows his eyes.

“Please tell me you didn’t invite Uncle Mario,” he pleads. He loves the man, he does, but he would really rather not have Holster die from a heart attack at his birthday party. It’s bad enough that Ransom keeps walking by the table Tater’s sitting at and finding increasingly ridiculous excuses to say hi to him. No matter how many times Jack’s told him he should be okay just talking to him, he does this every time; Jack’s mostly resigned himself to it.

“Of course not, not after the last time, honey,” his mom says absent-mindedly, glancing at her watch instead. “Listen, I’m just going to go—”

The doorbell rings, and Shitty bounds over to throw it open. “Welcome, friends! The party has now arrived!” he announces dramatically.

Kent Parson steps past the doorway, a Falcs snapback covering his cowlick, one arm around the shoulders of a familiar-looking blond, the other raised in a lazy wave towards the rest of the room. “Hey, guys,” he calls out, as if he hasn’t gone toe-to-toe with most of the hockey players in this room.

Jack suddenly can’t breathe for a moment, not until Parse’s gray eyes find his immediately after—he always finds Jack within moments of walking into a room. Always. It was the only reason Jack could stand going to some parties when they were back in the Q, knowing that Parse would get there, and he’d find him.

“Hey, Zimms,” Parse says, walking towards him, grinning that crooked grin. “Happy birthday, man.”

And he withdraws the arm resting on his boyfriend—no, his soon-to-be-fiancé—and steps forward to hug Jack, easy and familiar as breathing.

“Missed you,” Parse murmurs into Jack’s ear, and Jack finally inhales.

“I missed you, too,” Jack Zimmermann admits. It’s the first time he’s ever done so out loud.

Kent Parson just smiles at him in reply, unmoved, as if he’s never begged Jack to say it back, never gotten on his knees and whispered those same words into Jack’s abdomen, his hipbones, his thighs. Jack’s glad, doesn’t know what he did to deserve this absolution, and thinks that even if Parse didn’t bring him any gift besides this, he’d still be blessed.

Then Parse turns to the man next to him. “Oh, hey,” he says, “I know you guys have met already, but this is—”

“Eric Bittle,” the man replies, brown eyes coolly impassive even as his mouth curves into a friendly, welcoming smile. “Parse’s friend.” He extends a hand, and Jack takes it, shakes it firmly as he nods in greeting.

(He remembers these hands, these fingers—Bittle’s fingertips edging into Parse’s hair, stroking the nape of his neck, somehow both secretive and absent-minded. Jack remembers seeing this across the room at one of the cafeterias in the Olympic Village, watching Parse’s eyes close in contentment, and thinking, _Oh._

Oh. Eric Bittle wasn’t a friend—or, he was a friend the way Jack had been a “friend.” He was a friend in the way that meant Parse would walk into a room and find him, like a compass pointing north, like waves pulled by the moon, like the inexorable tug of gravity.

He’d seen that and he’d known instantly how badly he’d fucked up the night before, when he’d talked to Bittle, but it was too late to do anything then but apologize, belatedly and inadequately, just like always.) 

“Bittle,” Jack says, “good to see you.”

“Yes, same here,” Bittle replies, and Jack doesn’t need to know him well to know that he’s lying—it’s in his eyes. He’s not bothering to hide it. “It’s good to see you, too.”

They let go simultaneously. Jack flexes his hand by his side, and Bittle places his over Parse’s hip, possessive, intimate, not caring who sees. Parse’s arm settles back on his shoulders, and Bittle raises his chin in a graceful, though unmistakable, challenge.

 _Mine_ , his eyes say. _Back off_. _Don’t touch him_.

Jack pushes down the urge to retaliate and do the exact opposite. It’s not his place anymore, and he can’t say that Bittle doesn’t have the right to be suspicious of him. Pyeongchang wasn’t Jack’s best moment.

He won’t make the same mistake now.

Jack steps back and smiles at them both.

“Hope you enjoy the party,” he says.

 

\---

 

Jack’s always been envious of people who fit in their skin so well that they’re at risk of slipping out of it and filling up a whole room with the force of their personality—and for as long as he’s known him, Parse has been the best example of the type.

Even a decade hasn’t changed this.

Jack guesses it’s a little strange to be upstaged at his own birthday party, but mostly he finds he doesn’t mind. He’s never done well with too much attention on him, has mostly gotten by through practice, practice, practice, and sticking doggedly to the script provided him, so he takes the respite afforded him and enjoys it.

Besides, if nobody’s paying attention to him, then they won’t notice how much attention he’s paying to Parse.

Parse looks…good. Charming and at ease and effortlessly funny as always, full of self-deprecating stories that make him seem so relatable, so normal, so exactly like any guy from down the street that you forget he’s anything else. He remembers Lardo’s name, claps a familiar hand on Ransom and Holster’s shoulders, and high-fives Shitty like they see each other every day. Jack keeps looking over and getting flashbacks from a million different house parties or post-game hang-outs, with the only difference being that Parse has completely shed the lankiness of youth, toned down his high-pitched giggles, and gotten his tendency to poke people in the eye while gesturing at least somewhat under control.

Well, that and the fact that instead of Jack by his side to play the awkward, looming, taciturn sidekick, Parse has now found somebody to match him, somebody who can stay at his side and hold his own as the two of them hold court together.

See Exhibit A: Eric Bittle.

Bittle walks through the room, effortlessly mingling, offering to refill a glass here, cutting a slice of homemade pie for someone there, his delighted laughter turning heads wherever he goes.

Except he always, always orbits back around to Parse: reaching out and touching his arm, the crook of his elbow, or the curve of his hip as he passes by; leaning up to whisper in his ear before wandering off again; bumping their shoulders together in a way that look should look platonic, but is somehow decidedly _not_.

There’s an intimacy to their body language that speaks to what they are to each other, and Jack can see more than a few quizzical looks being cast their way.

“Are they…?” he hears Poots murmur to Snowy.

Snowy shrugs. “Well, you know Parson’s always had rumors following him. Guess some of them might be true.”

Jack ducks down to dig a soda bottle out of a cooler, but he can feel Poots’ considering glance. Looks like Parse was right, and the rumors _would_ be starting up again; Jack can’t help but smile ruefully. Parse always did have a better sense of how the gossip machine worked than he did.

He straightens and sends a nod in Snowy and Poots’ direction, Poots sheepishly avoiding his gaze, and pretends he didn’t hear a thing.

 

\---

 

When Shitty rolls out the cake and gathers everybody to sing “Happy Birthday,” Parse belts the song out, singing from his gut and grinning widely the way he always does. This time, though, there’s a sweet-voiced tenor to match him beat for beat.

Of course Bittle can sing. Of course.

Jack’s not jealous, because this isn’t a competition. He’s not.

“Make a wish!” Holster yells, and Jack closes his eyes and blows the candles out.

 _Please don’t let me fuck this up_ , he thinks.

(It’s what he always wishes for every birthday, and it’s meant different things in different years: the Q, the draft, being captain at Samwell, graduating from college, signing with the Falcs, living in general, etc., etc.

For the first time in more than a decade, though, the image that comes to mind is Parse’s smiling face.)

 

\---

 

Hours later, the party winds down, and Parse and Bittle stick around to help with the clean-up. Actually, Parse catches hold of Jack’s elbow and asks if he can talk to Jack afterward—he’s got something he has to ask him, and it can’t wait.

His eyes are blue-green and cautiously hopeful, and Jack’s nodding his agreement before he can even think twice about it.

“Sure,” he says.

“Awesome,” Parse answers, and Jack has to turn away from the blinding force of his sudden grin.

 _You idiot_ , he tells the butterflies in his stomach. _This is Parse. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s taken. You know this._

The butterflies are deaf, unfortunately, and don’t listen.

 

\---

 

Once everyone is gone (including Jack’s parents—his dad especially had been a little strange while leaving, exchanging a knowing look with Parse, but Jack chalks it up to his dad just watching out for him), Bittle hands him a slice of pie.

It’s apple, Jack’s favorite, dusted generously with cinnamon and brown sugar.

“Here,” he says, “for the birthday boy.”

Parse is already scarfing down a generous portion, and Bittle watches him with an indulgent glance. “You’ll love it, Zimms,” Parse says, grinning. “Eric makes the best desserts.”

“Yeah, but you’d eat roadkill as long as somebody fried it first. I don’t exactly trust your sense of taste,” Jack chirps back, automatic, before realizing he’s indirectly questioning Bittle’s baking skills. “Uh. Not that your pie isn’t wonderful,” he corrects immediately. “Just that—just that Parse’s tongue makes a bad measuring stick.”

“Well, no, I certainly don’t use his tongue for that,” Bittle murmurs, and the tips of Parse’s ears flush red, the way they do when he’s embarrassed.

 _Or turned on_ , part of Jack’s brain helpfully reminds him.

Jack drops his gaze to his plate and eats a forkful of pie—and immediately has to stop himself from groaning out loud.

“Hrmm,” he says instead, his eyes widening.

Parse grins at him cheekily. “Told you so.”

Bittle loops a finger through one of Parse’s belt loops and tosses a smirk Jack’s way. Jack ignores the competitive edge he sees in it and smiles politely back. “Thank you for the pie,” he says truthfully. “It’s great.”

“Why, bless your heart,” Bittle says, and Parse clears his throat.

“Eric, you mind…?” he says, tilting his head at the doorway.

“Nope, not at all,” Bittle says, and he kisses him quickly and walks out the room. “Holler if you need anything,” he says over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at Jack when he says this, but Jack feels censured anyway, which seems a little unfair. He’s been good this whole day, what the hell else does Bittle want out of him?

Bittle keeps acting like Jack is trying to get back together with Parse, and that’s just ridiculous. He’s not. He knows a lost cause when he sees one, and he wouldn’t even try. Actually, even if Parse _had_ been single, he still wouldn’t have—too much history. Too much pain.

He and Parse weren’t good for each other, he knew that. Knew it even better, now that he could see what Parse looks like when he’s with somebody who fits him, who deserves him. Jack’s not going to get in the way of that.

He just wants to be friends again, the way they were before. Is that so much to ask?

( _Depends on your definition of “friends,” don’t you think?_ a voice asks, sarcastic.

Jack ignores it.)

“Zimms,” Parse asks, his eyes the same Falconers’ blue as the balloons still in the kitchen, “the thing I have to talk to you about. Um. It’s—it’s kind of complicated, but—” Parse sighs, dropping his gaze.  “It’s, uh—well, it’s—” He scratches the side of his head, and Jack suddenly notices the ring on his finger.

“Oh,” he says, putting the pieces together. “Congratulations.”

Parse stares at him. “What?”

Jack gestures at his hand. “Your engagement. Congrats.”

Jack feels happy for him. He does. He’s not disappointed. That would be—it would be pointless, and selfish, and wrong, and the opposite of being a good friend. Didn’t Jack just promise himself he wouldn’t fuck this up?

Jack puts a smile on, offers Parse his hand.

Parse doesn’t take it. “Oh, shit,” he says instead, whipping his left hand behind his back. “That’s not—no, well, I _am_ engaged, but not as me—it’s other-me who’s getting married, you see, and—oh, fuck, this is going to sound so fucking crazy.”

“Parse?” Jack asks, confused.

Parse pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, fuck it,” he says, then drops his hand and looks right at Jack. “Zimms, I’m from an alternate universe. The Stanley Cup kidnapped me, and I need to find you to fall in love with somebody before the season starts so I can go home.”

Jack frowns. “I’m sorry, what now? Is this a joke?” If it is, it’s not very funny, Jack thinks.

Parse doesn’t grin and admit he was pulling a prank. Instead, he reaches for his cell phone. “Hold up, lemme get Dad Bob to explain,” he says.

“Wait, what?”

 

\---

 

Okay. So. Alternate universes are apparently a thing, and the Stanley Cup can manipulate them. How wonderful.

Jack sits at his kitchen counter with his arms crossed, Parse and Bittle looking at him expectantly.

“Let me see if I understand: you’re from an alternate universe,” Jack says.

“Yep.”

“Where I’m dating Bittle.”

“Yep.”

“ _I’m_ dating Bittle?”

“Yep.”

“…this seems very strange.”

“Believe me, we know,” Bittle snarks, leaning against Parse. “But it’s the truth. And my Kenny, for some fucked up reason, decided to waste his Cup wish on _your_ happiness, so here we are.” Bittle gives him a patently false smile, all teeth with just a sliver of his eyes peeking through.

“Please tell me you’re seeing somebody,” Parse says. “Like, has there been anybody you’ve been talking to recently who’s made you think, ‘Wow, yes, this person is awesome, we should do this more often’?”

 _Well, there was **you**_ , Jack thinks.

Which is. Not what Parse means, obviously, _duh_.

Jack shakes his head.

Bittle sighs. “Great. Just great.”

Parse pats his knee. “It’s okay, buddy. Zimms and I will just—we’ll be dating buddies. Wingmen. How about that, huh?”

Jack furrows his brows, confused. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to be dating around, too?” he asks. “Why?”

Parse blinks. “Well, because that’s what I wished for. To find somebody.”

“But…” Jack looks at Bittle. Just from the way they’d interacted, he’d thought there was something there. He wouldn’t even have guessed that they weren’t together. “…aren’t you dating Bittle?”

“ _What?_ No! Jesus, Jack, did you miss the entire part of the explanation where I said _you’re_ dating him?” Parse demands.

“Yes, but…I was thinking that perhaps we…shared,” Jack finishes, awkward. Which. Alright, it sounds implausible when you say it aloud like that, but, Crisse, anybody with eyes can see that Parse and Bittle are made for each other. It doesn’t make _sense_ that Jack is the one Bittle’s in love with.

(It doesn’t make sense that the one Jack is in love with is _Bittle_.)

“We don’t, trust me,” Parse mutters. He rolls his shoulders, like the very idea gives him the hives.

“The other-me has terrible taste in men,” Bittle adds, deadpan.

“ _Eric_ ,” Parse says, exasperated.

“Well, he does!”

Parse rolls his eyes. “Anyway, long story short, no, I’m not seeing anybody. I’m single.”

 _Single._ Something in Jack’s subconscious sits up and takes notice of the word. “Oh,” he says out loud. “That’s…”

(Wonderful. Fantastic. The best thing he’s heard all year.

Jack frowns. _Stop it_ , he tells himself.

It doesn’t work.)

“It’s unfortunate,” Bittle says, locking eyes with Jack. “Kenny doesn’t deserve to be alone, so my Kent and I are going to find him somebody nice.”

 _Don’t you get any ideas_ , his eyes warn Jack. Jack says nothing in reply, just looks down at the tiles of his counter.

“Zimms,” Parse says after a moment, his voice hushed and quiet. “I need your help, man. Are you in?”

Jack sighs. “I’m in,” he says, ignoring the swooping in his gut when Parse smiles at him right afterward in obvious relief.

“Thanks, man,” he says, punching Jack’s shoulder gently. “Knew I could count on you.”

“Of course,” Jack says, pretending he’s not lying. “Of course.”

 

\---

 

This is what convinced Jack Zimmermann that Parse is who he says he is—not the Keeper of the Cup, not his own father’s story, not Parse’s offer to “connect them to the alternate universe,” whatever that involves.

No. It’s this:

Kent Parson smiles at Jack Zimmermann, and reaches out to touch him, and he doesn’t cling, or bruise, or push him away.

Kent Parson smiles at Jack Zimmermann, and he doesn’t expect anything back, just looks at him like he’s happy to see him, like he makes his day just by being there.

Kent Parson smiles at Jack Zimmermann as if he’s forgiven him, as if he’s forgiven himself.

 _You knew it_ , Jack tells himself, his heart aching, _you knew it was too good to be true._

A universe where Jack Zimmermann gets Kent Parson back? God knows that it wouldn’t be this one.

 

\---

 

“So,” Jack asks, “what next?”

“Uh. Well. Why don’t we coordinate with our alternate selves first?” Parse says.

Bittle pushes his stool back. “I’ll get the ice,” he says.

Parse sighs. “I’ll get the needle.”

Jack looks at the both of them, confused. “Eh?”

“You’ll see,” they answer in tandem.

 

\---

 

So. Yes. Ice and mirror magic is a thing, too, apparently.

“Euh,” Jack Zimmermann says, staring through the mirror at himself. “So…you’re me.”

“Yes,” other-Jack answers.

Jack’s eyes flicker between the two Parses and the two Bittles, noting how the Bittle in the mirror is curled protectively around the other-Jack, and the Bittle here in Jack’s living room is curled possessively around Parse—no, wait, other-Parse. Jack’s Parse is the one in the mirror.

 _Not your Parse, you idiot_ , a voice in his head points out, exasperated. _There isn’t a single universe where you got to keep him_.

 _That has to be wrong_ , another, quieter voice answers. _There has to be at least one. At least._

Jack thinks of it: a universe where he got to keep Kent Parson. A universe where they kept all their promises, where he spends summers waking up to Parse’s lazy kisses, where he spends roadies falling asleep to the sound of Parse’s voice. A universe where they maybe have an apartment with both their names on the lease, a closet divided half and half, eleven years’ worth of pictures on the walls.

His heart squeezes at the thought, all the more bittersweet because he knows, he _knows_ it isn’t real. Can’t be.

Jack clears his throat, discomfited, casts around for something to say. Parse—Bittle’s Parse, the Parse through the mirror—is looking at him with wary eyes, and it takes everything Jack has not to get up and leave the room just to escape him.

He promised. He promised he’d leave Parse alone, and now here they are, trapped in the same space again because of Parse’s ridiculous sense of responsibility, and guilt, and goddamned pity—

“Happy birthday, Zimms,” Parse says, and Jack startles.

But it’s the wrong Parse, of course, the Parse who’s friends with his other self. The Parse who’s from a different world entirely.

“Thanks,” Jack’s alternate self says, smiling back at him like he does it every day, and Jack has to push down the complicated tangle of envy and disbelief that rises up inside him.

“Did you like the camera kit?” Parse asks.

The other Jack frowns, confused. “The what?”

“Your gift, you dweeb,” Parse says, laughing. “That one Nikon you kept droning on and on about, you know the one. I ordered it for you ages ag—oh, shit, Kent, you didn’t bring it, did you?” he says, pointing at his alternate self accusingly.

The Parse in the mirror—Kent? That’s what they’re calling him for now, right?—rolls his eyes. “Look, I came here, alright? How the fuck was I supposed to know you had a present for him? It was hard enough navigating all these goddamned people when a third of them hate my guts in my universe, a third of them I haven’t seen in four years, and a third of them I haven’t even fucking met. Yet _somehow_ they all know me and expect me to know them. Forgive me if your little BFF present got lost in the shuffle—I was too busy trying to make sure I didn’t screw up your life.”  

“Yo, dude, chill out. Zimms’ friends are pretty cool, man,” Parse says, frowning. “It’s just a birthday party. You should’ve just pulled on your media face.”

“I did,” Kent bites out. “Half the people I talked to asked me if anything was wrong. Said I looked stressed out.”

“Oh,” Parse says, blinking.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” Kent slouches down in his chair, his elbows on his knees, probably trying for sullen and moody, but just looking exhausted instead. “Didn’t know they knew you that well. Felt like a fucking fraud,” he mutters.

“Baby,” Bittle says, stretching a hand out towards him automatically, wincing when his fingers hit cold glass.

Kent just shakes his head, covering his face with his hands. “I wanna go home,” he says plaintively. “Eric, I don’t want to be here anymore.”

The Jack in the mirror turns to him, placing a hand on Kent’s shoulder. “We’ll get you back,” he says urgently. “Par—Kent. We’ll get you back.” He looks across the mirror at Parse. “Both of you.”

Parse looks at his feet, the curve of his smile wry. “Yeah, man, I know,” he says. “Thanks. It means a lot. You’re a good friend, you know?” he says, with a pointed glance at the Bittle beside him.

Bittle ignores him, scowling, all attempts at pleasantry abandoned. He looks like he wants to reach through the glass and pry his Kent away from Jack’s alternate self.

“Of course,” the other Jack murmurs. “Of course.”

And this Jack Zimmermann—the Jack Zimmermann who’s sitting on his own, no Bittle, no Parse, no anybody—blinks, because he knows that tone: one part guilt, one part possessiveness, three parts persistent denial.

 _No_ , he thinks, staring at his counterpart. _Can’t be. You’re dating someone else, you’re dating **Bittle** , you can’t still be carrying a torch for Parse._

There has to be a universe where Jack Zimmermann is over Kent Parson, and surely it’s the one through the mirror. Surely every version of him isn’t stuck in this one-sided, half-formed, twisted-up, and fucking futile longing.

 _You’re imagining it_ , Jack tells himself firmly. _Don’t make things more complicated than they already are._

 

\---

 

He’s not imagining it, of course—though the second part of his thoughts hold true:

It can’t possibly get any more complicated than this.

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a ride! Between this chapter and my PB&J Epifest fic, I have...written a lot. Just... _a lot_ , trust me. I really am sorry for the delay, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter regardless. Please let me know what you think in the comments (and I am sorry about the multiple same-name character confusion; please hang in there and take comfort in the fact that the author gets confused, too, haha ^^;; ).
> 
> Special mentions this week go to: gutsybitsies, beta extraordinaire, without whom I would be 75% less productive, and who always does the quickest read-throughs at the most random of hours - thank you, thank you, thank you; Julorean, for whose reactions I live for; beaniebaneenie, who brightens my day; bookwyrmling, who is the height of awesomeness and helpfulness; the OMGCP Discord group, who continue to inspire and support and generally rock on; and my sister, who always laughs at the parts I want her to laugh, and shrieks at the parts I want her to shriek. ^^
> 
> Thank you also to each and every person who has left kudos or comments on this fic, or even just reads it. You make my day. I have no idea when I will get around to replying to you, especially because 80% of you write such long, lovely comments, but I promise to do my best. My inbox is overflowing with support and encouragement and A+++ reactions that are a goldmine of a writer's hoard, and I feel blessed to elicit such reactions any time I post. 
> 
> To my quiet fans who are too shy to talk to me, but who talk to their friends about this fic (which apparently happens??? me = !!!): I hope your week is going well, dear readers. Please know that you make my day, too. :) 
> 
> As always, feel free to come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/). I am always down to talk Kent Parson. <3


	9. except the heaven had come so near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Few things have more power than words, whether they are words spoken, or words withheld. A conversation is made up of both—a delicate balance between what’s meant to be conveyed and what’s actually understood. Things said, and things unsaid. Words, and the silences between them.
> 
> In every universe, Kent Parson has always been good at words. Jack Zimmermann has always been good at silences. Eric Bittle has always managed to say a lot with both.
> 
> Conversations between these three are complicated at the best of times, needless to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers: thank you for meeting me here in the year 2018. Thank you so much for your patience and your comments. They mean a lot. ^^
> 
> Content warnings: Passive-aggressiveness and UST. Other than that, let me know if I need to give a heads-up for something! :)
> 
> Thanks as always to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for being an awesome, awesome beta. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Except_the_Heaven_had_come_so_near_%E2%80%94). ^^

\---

 

 _Except the Heaven had come so near —_  
_So seemed to choose My Door —_  
_The Distance would not haunt me so —_  
_I had not hoped — before —_

 

\---

 

This is a fact, somewhat mutable, but nonetheless true:

There are conversations that change your life.

Few things have more power than words, whether they are words spoken, or words withheld. A conversation is made up of both—a delicate balance between what’s meant to be conveyed and what’s actually understood. Things said, and things unsaid. Words, and the silences between them.

In every universe, Kent Parson has always been good at words. Jack Zimmermann has always been good at silences. Eric Bittle has always managed to say a lot with both.

Conversations between these three are complicated at the best of times, needless to say. And this is _before_ taking into account conversations that are turning points.

Some conversations they have, they _knew_ were game-changers: the night before the draft. Epikegster. Graduation. Pyeongchang 2018.

Some conversations, it’s only after the fact: _‘Want my chicken tenders?’_ Or, _‘If there’s anything on my face, you put it there.’_ Or, _‘I made you some waffles, sugar.’_ Or, _‘You’re not so bad, Parson.’_

That’s the thing about conversations—each one can be the one that changes your life. You just don’t know it yet.

 

\---

 

When Eric gets back to the hotel room, he falls onto the bed face-first and lies there, groaning.

This is—it’s just—this whole thing is _exhausting_ , alright? He’s just so tired. He never wants to get up from this bed, ever again. Just leave him here, please, he’s sure it’ll be a lot easier than meeting with Jack Zimmermann again and matchmaking him with some poor unsuspecting person.

After a moment, somebody grabs hold of his ankles and takes his shoes off, gently stripping off his socks and then folding his legs up so his bare feet don’t dangle off the edge of the bed.

It’s Parse, of course, because Parse is Kent Parson, and Kent Parson is a goddamned gentleman, and earned his C by looking after everybody around him. He’ll look after Eric, too, no questions asked, no repayment expected.

But Parse _isn’t_ his Kenny, because Kenny would keep touching him, would massage the tightness from his calves and his knees, especially the left one, until Eric would sigh into the pillows, all pliant warmth, and then he’d tickle Eric’s sides until Eric would flop onto his back, laughing, batting at his hands. God, he loved Kenny’s hands, loved the way they’d inevitably trace down his sides and grasp his hips like they belonged there, pulling Eric in for kiss after kiss after toe-curling kiss. Loved how he’d move his body up until he covered Eric completely, his weight such a delicious pleasure to bear, his hips grinding lazily against Eric’s until the both of them would come, Kenny moaning right into his ear the whole time, a constant litany of _Need you, want you, love you, love you, love you_ —

“You alright there, buddy?” Parse asks with Kenny’s voice, soft and warm, breaking him out of his daydream as Parse settles onto the bed, far enough away that Eric can barely feel the heat from his body.

Eric squeezes his eyes shut. He’s really starting to hate any variation of ‘buddy’ or ‘bro’ or ‘pal,’ especially when Parse says them in the exact same tone Kenny uses to call him ‘baby’ or ‘sunshine’ or ‘honey.’

 _Don’t do this to me_ , he wants to beg. _Don’t do this to me when I **know** you’re in love with Zimmermann_.

He’d suspected. Of course he’d suspected. He knows Kent Parson like the back of his hand, knows his words and his silences, knows how he speaks with his eyes and with his body, knows how a single nudge of his shoulder, a brush of his knee, is as good as a shouted declaration of love from anybody else.

These past weeks, that’d been missing. There was a hesitation and a distance to their interactions that hadn’t been there in years, and Eric felt the absence like an ache. Things made sense after everything had been explained— _Oh_ , he’d thought. _This is a Kent who’s not in love with me._

Which. Alright. So they aren’t destined for each other in every universe. That’s fine. They’re destined in this one, and that’s what matters.

Then today had happened, and Eric spent the whole goddamned birthday party reaching for Parse while Parse had spent it reaching for Jack Zimmermann, a hundred casual hip-checks and pats on the backs and fingers glancing down forearms. And his smiles—God, Parse had smiled so much today that his cheeks had to be sore from it. Anytime Zimmermann had so much as glanced in his direction, he’d answered with a grin, wide and happy and affectionate, exactly the way Kenny had only ever looked at _Eric_ —

Eric stifles a pathetic keen. _He’s not your boyfriend_ , he tells himself firmly. **_Your_** _boyfriend loves you. Your boyfriend loves you so much he’s **marrying** you. It is stupid and selfish to be this jealous of somebody Kent hasn’t even really spoken to in years. It is stupid and selfish to be this jealous over a Kent Parson who’s basically a stranger to you._

 _But he’s not a stranger to Jack Zimmermann,_ the hurt corner of his brain responds. _Why is that? Why is Zimmermann the one thing that didn’t change? How come **they** were destined to be, even if it didn’t last? Why couldn’t **we** have been meant to be?_

It’s not fair. Eric swallows around the lump in his throat, and dedicates the next few seconds to breathing evenly so he doesn’t break out into sobs.

“Eric?” Parse asks, touching his shoulder, and Eric curls into a protective ball.

“I miss Kenny,” he blurts out, and from the corner of his eye he sees Parse flinch. He feels a twinge of regret for hurting him like that, but it’s _true_. Eric misses him, and he’s tired of hiding how much _he’s_ hurting, damn it.

“He’ll be back soon,” Parse says, but Eric’s already shaking his head.

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” Parse says, earnest. “Look, I fall in love at the drop of a hat. We’ll find me somebody nice in no time, and Zimms—” He grimaces slightly, but soldiers on, “—we’ll find him somebody nice, too.”

 _How are we going to do that when he’s already halfway in love with you?_ Eric thinks sourly. Don’t think he didn’t notice how Zimmermann invited all those touches. Though at least the alternate Jack Zimmermann was keeping his hands to himself, rather scrupulously so, though that made sense since he was already taken. By Bitty, which was still disturbing, but Eric’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. If _he’s_ not ending up with Parse, at least Jack Zimmermann won’t, either.

Out loud, he says, “If you say so, sugar.”

He doesn’t bother to hide the doubt in his voice, and Parse just sighs. “We have until the season starts,” he says quietly. “That’s plenty of time.”

“Pre-season’ll be busy,” Eric says. “For both of you.” Zimmermann wore the A for the Falcs, and if he was anywhere _near_ as dedicated as Kent—well.

“Then we have August,” Parse argues.

“We have the first half of August, more like.”

“Then we’ll do it in two weeks flat,” Parse says, exasperated. “Eric, c’mon. We’ve got this.” Parse reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, his eyes dark gray and serious. “We’ve got this.”

Eric closes his eyes and wills himself to believe.

 

\---

 

He and Kenny have an argument the next morning.

“You’re going back to Vegas,” Kent says, his arms crossed. It’s just the three of them, Kent holed up in the guest room while Eric and Parse make themselves comfortable in the hotel suite’s bathroom.

“Sugar,” Eric says, his turn to be exasperated, “I’m not trusting Jack Zimmermann to manage his own love life. I’m just not. From everything I’ve heard, the only thing he’s ever been in love with is hockey, and I am not risking _your_ ticket home on his ability to find someone without serious help.”

“Eric, Irina is in Vegas,” Kent says, visibly frustrated. “You have your own training to worry about, you can’t let yourself get distracted by this—”

“Who _cares_ about my training? You’re stuck in a goddamn alternate universe, I can practice my programs here in Boston if I have to,” Eric says, glaring at him.

“Baby—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me. I’m not budging on this,” Eric warns.

Kent thins his lips. “Eric, we’re both professional athletes, we _know_ the importance of constant practice with your team—you need access to your coach, your choreographer, your trainers if you want to win—”

“Winning is not the most important thing right now!” Eric shouts.

Kent’s mouth drops open. “Winning is _not_ important? Do you even hear yourself? Eric, you’re gunning for straight golds this season, you can’t let yourself slack off, not when the Grand Prix is just around the corner—”

“Kenny—”

“Look, you know I never expected you to put me before your own career. I understood when we got together that other things would always come first—” Kent says, barreling onward, and Eric snaps.

“You didn’t understand anything! You just assumed!” he yells. “Kenny, I don’t care about my career right now! I’m not Jack Zimmermann, you know!”

Beside him, Parse sucks in a startled breath. Kent looks at him with wide eyes.

Eric sighs, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “I’m not Jack Zimmermann,” he repeats, because it’s true, and because he knows exactly where Kent gets his skewed sense of priorities from. “If it comes down to a choice between you and my career—which it _won’t_ , because there are plenty of rinks here in Boston, and Irina’s got acquaintances who can help—I’m choosing you, sugar. No questions asked.”

“Eric,” Kent says, his eyes wet.

Eric gives him a shaky smile. “Baby, how many goddamn times are you going to make me repeat myself? I told you—you come first. Not all the time, no, but when it counts and where it counts? _Yes_ , and it definitely counts now.”

“Okay,” Kent says, laughing, scrubbing at his eyes. “Fine, you win. God, how many arguments is that now?”

“All of them, sugar, because I’m always right,” Eric insists, smiling, and they move onto other things.

 

\---

 

“You’re wrong, you know,” Parse says, after.

“Hm?”

“About Jack. He puts you—he puts _Bitty_ first.” He’s tying the laces of his running shoes, so Eric can’t see his face. “I mean, you’re right that he didn’t put _me_ first, but we were also eighteen, and had a lot of stuff going on, and—I dunno. I just wanted you to know.” He looks up, and his mouth is wry and his eyes are pinched at the corners, the way they get when he wants something but he thinks he’s not going to get it. “He puts you first.”

Eric Bittle has the sudden and startling realization that Parse is _jealous_ of him. Because of Jack Zimmermann. Because Jack Zimmermann puts him first.

Eric honestly doesn’t know whether he feels more outraged at finding yet another way Zimmermann’s broken Parse’s heart, or appalled that Parse is jealous of _him_ of all people, when he would _literally_ walk over burning coals for him.

 _You don’t have to look that way, baby_ , he wants to say. **_I_** _put you first._  

“Oh,” he says instead, mouth on autopilot while his thoughts are chasing themselves in circles. “That’s good to hear. I’m glad he’s changed.”

“Yeah,” Parse says, laughing ruefully. “Me, too.”

His eyes are the shade of blue-gray they get when he’s lying to himself. Eric’s heart sinks to his feet.

 

\---

 

After skating at one of Irina’s recommended rinks, having lunch with Carrie and Chowder (Cait’s got work, unfortunately, so it’s just them, the Three Musketeers together again), and requesting a giant bag of ice be sent to their room (for mirror magic purposes, but he’s not telling the concierge that), Eric’s relatively lovely afternoon is spoiled beyond repair by the first words out of Parse’s mouth:

“So, Camilla Collins is currently spending her summer in Vegas as a resort tennis trainer,” he says, speaking as quickly as he can, as if he’s worried Eric will cut him off or argue with him.

“And who is Camilla?” Eric asks, genuinely confused.

“Um. She’s Jack’s ex-girlfriend. You know, candidate number one on his ‘most likely to end up with them’ list. On both of his lists, actually, which is probably a good sign, if my Jack and your Jack are on the same page about somebody—”

“Wait a minute,” Eric says, suddenly seeing the direction this is going in. “You’re telling me she’s in Vegas.”

Parse winces. “Yes.”

“As in…Las Vegas.”

“Is there any other one?” Parse says, trying for a smirk.

Eric ignores it. “The Vegas where we live.”

“…yes.”

“Vegas.”

“…yes.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

Eric scowls. “Well, damn it.”

 

\---

 

“So, we’re going back to Vegas,” Eric says, smiling politely.

Kent, Bitty, and Jack all look to be varying shades of shell-shocked. Eric can’t entirely blame them.

“Camilla’s in Vegas?” Jack asks, just to make sure.

“Yep!” Eric says, smiling brightly.

“She’s working at the Hilton as a tennis trainer,” Parse contributes.

“That’s…” Bitty casts about for something to say. “…nice.”

“Well, it’s awful convenient, is what it is. We’ll just fly out with Zimmermann tomorrow, engineer a casual run-in with her, and then voila! Kenny’s wish will be fulfilled,” Eric says, holding his smile in place through sheer force of will.

“It’ll be fine,” Parse seconds, ignoring his counterpart’s doubtful looks. He clears his throat, changing the subject, “And, uh, how goes the catfishing?”

Bitty’s brow furrows. “Is it really catfishing if you’re technically the same person—”

“It’s going great. There’s a really cute architect in Boston who I think you’ll like,” Kent says, and proceeds to read aloud their chat logs.

“Huh,” Parse says, blinking. “That’s not what I’d have said—”

“Yeah, I know what you’d have said,” Kent interrupts. “You’d have suggested meeting at a bar, or a night club, or taken her out to a really swanky restaurant.”

“Well, yeah, man, that’s a pretty good way to—”

“—to get taken for a fake. I took Eric out for mini-golf for our first date,” Kent says, crossing his arms.

Parse glances at Eric, raising a skeptical brow. “Mini-golf?”

Eric elbows him. He doesn’t have to take this kind of ribbing from a man who apparently didn’t have a rom-com bone in his body. “It was cute! And besides, that wasn’t even our _real_ first date. Our real first date was—”

“The blue couch?” Kent says, smirking.  

Eric shuts his mouth, blushing crimson. Bitty and Jack are looking between the two of them like they can guess what Kent’s talking about, and that just isn’t—that isn’t for anybody but them, thank you very much. “Kent!” he hisses. “That wasn’t—that’s not—I was thinking of coffee at Stella’s!”

“Oh, well, yes, those too,” Kent says, all false piety, and why is he being so—

Eric’s eyes catch on the way Bitty and Jack are holding hands.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, and looks to his side, where Parse sits, pretty as a picture and seemingly touchable, even if Eric can feel the miles of distance between them. Kent’s not here; Kent can’t tell that.

He looks Kent in the eye, deliberate. “A first date is a first date,” he says firmly. “We agreed our unofficial first date was Stella’s, and the official first date was mini-golf.” He inhales quickly, then says the rest in as matter-of-fact a voice as he can manage: “The first time we made love is a separate anniversary altogether, and I won’t have you lumping it in with the rest. That’s not how we work, sweetheart.”

If Kent needs to be reminded that he belongs to Eric, then Eric will remind him. If he needs him to be bold about it, then he’ll be bold. If he needs him to flaunt it, to flirt the edge of being explicit, then he’ll do it.

Eric is an expert at giving Kenny what he needs.  

Kent smiles back, slow and sinful, but his eyes are full of nothing but gratitude. “You’re right,” he says, “that’s not how we work.”

“Damn straight. I won’t be cheated out of any of our anniversaries, you hear?” Eric says, and Kent’s answering laugh is nothing but sweetness.

 

\---

 

“How many anniversaries do you guys even have?” Parse asks later, confused.

“Well, eight now that I’ve proposed,” Eric says, absent-minded, thinking of how isolated his Kenny had looked, how touch-starved he must be. That _can’t_ be good for him; Kent lives for physical contact.

Parse hums consideringly, and Eric’s eyes flick to him, flick to the space between them, that careful, constant five inches that Parse has maintained. Eric thinks about it: Parse never reaches for him, true, but never once in the weeks they’ve known each other did he pull away when Eric reached for him first.

Eric’s heart aches some, because he knows Parse doesn’t know how to ask.

Eric scoots over slightly, pressing their shoulders together as he checks on their flight info.

Parse stiffens, but after a moment, he leans into the touch. They stay that way until Carrie arrives.

 

\---

 

A conversation between Kent Parson and Kent Parson, sometime amidst the hustle and the bustle:

“Okay, so we’re heading out to Vegas today, and I guess you’ll head back tomorrow—” Parse says.

“Should I?” Kent asks.

Parse blinks. “Uh, yeah? I mean, if the goal is to find me somebody, then Vegas is—”

“Your best bet?” Kent leans back and raises his brows, coolly amused. “If you haven’t found somebody yet, then what’s the difference now?”

Parse rolls his eyes. “The difference is that _this_ time—”

“—you’ll be serious about it?” Kent asks, and in the mirror, Parse scowls. Yeah, Kent’s not too fond of the near-telepathy they share either, but this conversation is important and he’s trying to avoid it, Kent _knows_ he is. “How come you weren’t serious about it before?” he demands.

“Because—”

“Actually, just answer this question: are you over Jack Zimmermann?”

Silence greets him. After a long moment, Parse says, “I mean, it—”

“Depends on your idea of over him? You’re mostly there? You’ve been working on it?” Kent sighs. “Well, fuck.” Sounds like Mags and Swoops were right after all. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Through the mirror, Parse is shrugging sheepishly. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I really _am_ mostly over him? Like, I’ve accepted we’re over and done with, and I acknowledge that our relationship wasn’t healthy for either of us, and—”

“Look, I talked with Ben about this stuff, too, man, you don’t have to bullshit me,” Kent interrupts.

Parse rolls his eyes. “I’m not bullshitting you, dude, I’m just telling you that I know all of this _intellectually_.” He taps his forehead. “I’ve figured it all out up here, right? Like, if you told me right now that I could have Jack Zimmermann back, I would tell you thanks, but no thanks.”

Kent startles. “Wait, really?”

Parse makes a face at him. “Uh, yeah? You’ve seen him and Bitty, man, you know they’re good for each other. I don’t want to get in the way of that, and I _don’t_ think Jack and I are a good fit romantically. Like, fuck, man, we’ll just crash and burn, and I—” He blows out an anxious breath. “I’d _really_ regret that, you know? Jack is—Jack is one of my _best_ friends, man, and I know you and your Jack—”

“Not my Jack,” Kent says harshly.

Parse gives him a strange look, but glosses over it. “Sure, man, yeah—the Jack from this world, whatever—anyway, I know you two are—” He waves a hand in a circling half-shrug, and, sure, that’s about the best visual interpretation of whatever Kent and Jack have going on, truly. “So you probably don’t understand, or don’t want to understand—and I _get_ that, believe me. But Jack is important to me.” He looks at him with familiar, pleading eyes, and, Jesus, no wonder Eric caves so often if that’s how earnest he looks. “It took a lot of work, but we got here—we talk all the time, we go and see each other, he’s got my back and I’ve got his, and—we’re _friends_ , okay, and I’m not gonna risk that for fucking anything.”

Kent swallows. “That’s—that’s good. I’m glad for you.”

Parse smiles ruefully. “Yeah, man. I’m glad for me, too. This fucker, though—” He taps the center of his chest, right over his heart. “This fucker’s the problem. Swear to God, I am, like, 99.9% over the guy, and then he smiles at me, and—” Parse closes his eyes and sighs.

Kent’s heart squeezes, a sudden ache, and he knows exactly what Parse means. “It’s like you’re back at square one.”   

“Like I’m back at square one,” he seconds, nodding. “It fucking sucks, man. I swear to God, I hate it, I just can’t do anything about it. It’s like I said—I really, really, _really_ want to be over him, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kent says through the lump in his throat. “I get that.”

Parse laughs again, hollow. “I just don’t know how.” He glances at Kent through the mirror, eyes beseeching. “How’d you manage it, man?”

 _I didn’t_ , is Kent’s first thought, before he pushes it violently away. “I met Eric,” he says instead.

Parse nods, like he knew that would be the answer. “Figured.” He wraps a hand around the opposite wrist and rolls it absent-mindedly, cracking his joints. “I guess we’ll just have to try that method for me, too.”

“Wha—you want to—to _date_ _Bitty?”_ Kent says, shocked. He’d mostly abandoned any thought of hinting at Jack’s feelings for Parse after that speech, but if Parse is considering dating Bitty, then there’s a chance it might work out. The three of them, that is—Parse and Bitty and…Jack.

Kent feels his gut twist in a combination of envy and hurt at the thought, but there’s an aching nostalgia mixed in, too. Here, at least, might be a universe he gets to have Jack Zimmermann. Here, at least, is a universe where he and Eric Bittle are still destined, too.

The look on Parse’s face immediately after stops that line of thought cold, though. He looks like he’s going to throw up, Jesus.  

“What? No, man, of course not, do I look like a fucking homewrecker to you?’ Parse demands, horrified. “I meant that we’d have to find me somebody, too! Like we planned from the start!”

“Oh,” Kent says, heartrate slowing but still feeling unsettled. Should he tell him? That he wouldn’t be a homewrecker? That he’d be welcomed? But on second thought, maybe he’s reading it wrong—maybe it’s not a relationship Jack and Bitty want, maybe it’s just sex. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten his signals mixed up on that end.

 _And besides_ , a voice whispers quietly, _you promised Jack you wouldn’t tell. You **promised**._

And Kent’s had enough of breaking his word to Jack Zimmermann, of opening his mouth and saying words he should have swallowed, spilling secrets that weren’t his to share. He won’t do it. Not again. Not after the last time, when he’d fucked everything up—

Kent shakes his head, clearing his throat and getting his thoughts into order. “Right. Okay. Let’s just—let’s just try and find you somebody, then. I’ll see if there’s anybody interesting here on the East Coast—”

Parse startles. “Wait, what? Find somebody there? But—”

Kent shakes his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter where they’re from, right? Let’s face it, any relationship you have is going to be long-distance once the season starts—” God knows that’s true for him and Eric, and Kent tamps down the surge of resentment that they’ve basically spent all of both their off-seasons apart. “—and you plan on moving back East once you retire, right?”

“Right,” Parse admits.   

Kent nods. “Might as well find somebody who’s already got ties here, then,” he says, thinking of the Bittles’ welcoming house in Georgia, Eric’s fondness for their place in New York. “You always wanted to settle back home, anyway, and Vegas isn’t the best place to raise a family.”

Parse stares at him. “A family?” he says blankly.

Kent blinks, tilts his head. “Uh, yeah? What, you’re telling me you don’t want a pile of rugrats sometime in the future?” He knows _he_ does; he’d be fine with two kids, but Eric’s got his heart set on having three, and he’s willing to be persuaded.

Parse swallows. “Well, yeah, but—I mean, that’s always seemed kind of…kind of unlikely.”

The look of quiet longing on his face slices Kent neatly into pieces. Fuck, he remembers looking like that, _feeling_ like that. “Oh,” Kent says, floundering. What the fuck is he supposed to say to himself? Everything’s going to be okay? That always sounded like bullshit, at least before he met Eric. He clears his throat. “You gotta think long-term, man,” he says, plowing forward, deciding to do them both a favor and focus on strategizing. “If you want to fall in love, and stay in love, then you’ve got to consider whether or not you and your partner’s goals align. You’re better off looking for somebody who wants the same things you want right from the get-go, so you can commit to somebody else the way you want to, the way you deserve.”

Parse looks at him, mouth slightly agape. “Um. Wow. Thanks,” he says, and from anyone else Kent would think he’s being sarcastic, but he hears the sincerity. Quieter, Parse asks, “You really think I could be good for somebody? Like—do you think I could make somebody sound the way—”

“The way Jack sounds when he talks to Bitty?”

Parse shakes his head, a tiny movement. “The way Eric sounds when he talks to you,” he whispers, not meeting Kent’s eyes.

 _Oh_ , Kent thinks, his heart bruising. He remembers this, too—what it was like to think he was both ruined and ruinous, unfit to be around anybody else, desperately terrified that he was going to end up alone and miserable. He clears his throat. “Hell, yeah,” he answers confidently, throwing on a grin. “You’re motherfucking Kent Parson, man. Believe me, you’re worth it.”     

Parse smiles back, tentative and fragile, the way hopeful things tend to be, and Kent thinks to himself, _Please, God, don’t let me fuck this up_.

They can do this. They can. Finding somebody new? Getting over Jack Zimmermann? They’ve had eleven years’ of practice. It’ll be a piece of cake, easy.

 

\---

 

(This is the thing about Kent Parson, though:

He’s always been very good at lying, especially to himself. This doesn’t change just because there are two of him now.)

 

\---

 

A conversation between Eric Bittle and Kent Parson, sometime amidst the quiet and the calm:

“Do you…would you mind if I invited Zimms to stay with us?” Parse asks, interrupting the silence.

Eric glances over, a flicker of cool, earthen brown. “Do what you want,” he says, shrugging elegantly. “It’s your house.”

Parse turns to face him, exasperation written all over his face. “It’s _your_ house. I won’t invite him if you don’t feel comfortable around him.”

 _I don’t_ , Eric thinks, but if he says that, Zimmermann will go to stay in a hotel, and Kent Parson will inevitably follow him. There’s nothing to tie him to Eric’s side, after all.

Eric doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know what to think. He hardly knows what he feels right now, this tangle of anger and jealousy and protectiveness and fear. There’s a reason why his first thought, nearly a week ago now, when he saw Jack Zimmermann’s name flash across Kent’s phone was that Kent was leaving Eric for him.

It’s irrational. It’s untrue. But still, his first instinct is to brace himself for that loss, because even if Eric has every part of Kent now, all that means is that he knows there’s always going to be a piece of him with Zimmermann’s fingerprints burned into it.

 _I lose you for days after every game against Providence_ , he wants to say. _I don’t know if it’s love or hate that binds you to him, but I’ve yet to break it, either way._

But then again, this isn’t his Kent, is it? He wouldn’t understand.

Eric sighs. “He can stay. I don’t—he’s not my friend, true, but I know that he’s yours. And I know that he’s important to Kenny, important enough that he wants him to be happy.” He swallows against the bitterness rising in his throat. “If making nice with Zimmermann is what it takes to get Kenny back, then I’ll do it.”

Parse bites his lip and nods. “I’ll let him know, then,” he says, gentle.

Eric turns away and busies himself with packing their things.

 

\---

 

Carrie hugs him goodbye at the airport, a crushing, familiar embrace.

“Y’all take of yourselves now,” he says fiercely, muffled against her shoulder. Carrie’s always been tall, just half an inch shorter than her brother, which always drove Kent nuts.

Carrie laughs in reply, rueful. “Save some of that worry for yourself.”

Eric sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Honey, I’ve got so much worry I don’t know what to do with it. Just take some for me, will you?”

She pulls him back in for another hug. Then she turns and delivers the same to Parse. “You look out for him,” she instructs.

Parse doesn’t say anything, just nods against her shoulder, and that’s that.

They fly home to Vegas in silence.

 

\---

 

A conversation between Jack Zimmermann, Eric Bittle, and Kent Parson, taking place in a sunny apartment in Providence, Rhode Island:

“So, like, don’t worry, I promise I’ll be getting out of your guys’ hair soon,” Kent says, scratching the back of his head.

Jack looks up, appalled. “Wait, what?”

Bitty places a hand on his arm. “You’re heading back to Vegas, then?” he asks calmly.

“Uh, no. Other-me decided he wanted to try and find somebody on the East Coast, so I was thinking of maybe heading to New York,” Kent explains, shrugging.

Bitty pauses, searching for the right words. It feels wrong to just let Kent walk out of here, all of his anger and the weight of his secrets pressing down on him. “Any reason you can’t have your home base here? At least for the next few weeks,” he says carefully.

Kent hesitates. “I really wouldn’t want to impose,” he says.

Jack’s already shaking his head. “Parse, you could never—”

Kent’s mouth twists wryly. “Look, you don’t have to put me up, man—”

“It wouldn’t be like that,” Bitty says, interrupting them both and reaching over to touch Parse’s elbow. “You’d be doing us the favor. Parse is our friend, and I, for one, would like to see him home safely. Can’t do that if you’re in another state, now, can we?”  

Kent stares at him, mouth slightly agape. He closes it and swallows hard. “Guess not,” he says, then adds roughly, “You sure you’re okay with me staying?”

“Honey, of course. We’d love to have you here,” Bitty says, using the endearment deliberately. Jack glances at him, grateful, and Bitty squeezes his hand in reassurance.

Kent looks at his feet and nods. “Okay,” he says, just like Bitty knew he would.

“Good,” Bitty answers decisively. “Good.”

 

\---

 

When Jack Zimmermann gets to baggage claim at McCarran International Airport, Kent Parson’s already got his things and is leaning against the wall, his left foot braced against it and his body held in a casual slouch, scrolling idly through his phone.

Jack’s fingers itch for his camera.

Parse glances up just as he takes a step towards him. “Hey, man,” he says, smirking as he pushes off the wall. He gives him a bruising hug, all the more jarring for how familiar it feels, despite the years of distance between them. But then it’s probably familiar to this Parse, isn’t it? The other Jack Zimmermann must get hugs like this all the time.

Jack pushes down a surge of envy and clears his throat. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem, bro. You get held up by fans, or did a little old lady need help getting her carry-on down?” Parse asks.

Jack blushes. “Um.”

Parse laughs. “Both? Man, you really never change,” he says, his eyes sea-green and amused. He’s so confident in his assumptions, and Jack waits for the flash of anger and resentment, that Parse should feel entitled enough to think that he still knows him best, even after all this time.

It never comes. Instead, it’s just the envy again, the reminder that there exists a universe where Jack Zimmermann gets to have Kent Parson grin at him fondly, and it isn’t this one.

 _You’re not going to get to keep this_ , he reminds himself. _Don’t get used to it_.

To distract himself, Jack asks, “Where’s Bittle?”  

“Right here,” is the answer, as Bittle materializes by Jack’s elbow.

“Crisse!” Jack jumps in surprise, and from the little grin on Bittle’s face, that was the plan. Bittle looks perfect, as usual, a pair of sunglasses tucked casually into the pocket of his shirt, his jean-shorts cuffed high and revealing his firm, muscled thighs.

 _…don’t even start_ , Jack tells himself as Bittle shoulders him aside, pushing down the quickly-becoming-familiar mix of attraction, annoyance, and reluctant amusement that Bittle inspires in him. That’s the line of thinking that got him into trouble last year at the Olympics.

He shakes his head to clear it, tuning back into the conversation.

“I got you your iced coffee,” Bittle says to Parse, casual, stepping in unnecessarily close to hand it over. “Swoops texted while I was in line, said he’ll be here in ten.”

“That’s good,” Parse answers. “How are—”

“The cats are fine, Parse,” Eric answers, nudging his hip. “I’m sure you got the photos, same as I did.”

“But you know he always feeds them too much,” Parse complains. “Purrs is on a diet, it’s not good for his health if Swoops is sneaking him bacon for breakfast. I don’t care if it’s made out of turkey, it’s still fucking bacon.”

Eric rolls his eyes, but the gesture is fond. “He wouldn’t.”

“How would you know?” Parse says, pouting.

“Because I told him if Purrs’ cholesterol levels went up, I’d stop helping him with the kosher meat buns Mags likes. The man owes me. He’ll come to heel,” Eric replies blithely.

Jack laughs despite himself, and Eric shoots him a glance, surprised. Jack clears his throat, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he says, gruff.

“Don’t be,” Eric states, waving it off.

Parse grins at him, nudging his side with a friendly elbow. “Yeah, dude, you’ve gotta get used to it. Eric’s pretty much always this devious.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Eric says, smiling sweetly at Parse. The look he directs towards Jack right afterwards is hardly as warm, but it’s also not as venomous as the ones Jack’s received before, so he shrugs and takes it.

 

\---

 

A conversation between Eric Bittle and Jack Zimmermann, in a terminal at McCarran, waiting for Kent Parson to come back with his luggage:

“Y’all are really good friends, huh?” Bittle says, out of nowhere.

Jack turns to look at him, surprised. “Um, I wouldn’t really say that—”

Bittle gives him an exasperated look, but there’s…almost a touch of fondness in it, like the expression he’d have for a misbehaving pet. Jack doesn’t know what to make of it. “It’s okay to admit that you want to be friends with someone. It’s not a crime.”

Jack swallows, darting a glance in Parse’s direction, feeling his throat tighten with something like longing. “But he’s not—this isn’t—he isn’t the real Parse.”

“Isn’t he?” Bittle murmurs, and Jack stares. It’s fairly obvious to him that _this_ Parse and Bittle’s Parse are worlds apart. For one thing, this Parse can actually stand to look him in the eye for more than a minute.

Bittle takes in his expression and sighs. “Zimmermann,” he says firmly, “if you can be a good friend to this Parse, there isn’t a reason you can’t be good friends to my Kenny, and—” He takes a deep breath. “—and I think my Kenny would like that. Being friends with you again.”

( _Lord knows Kenny’s been sending enough melancholy glances towards **both** versions of you these past few days_ , Eric thinks wryly.)

Jack stares at him. “Really?”

Bittle gives a watery laugh. “Zimmermann, why the hell do you think I wanted to talk to you at Pyeongchang last year?”

“Oh.”

“Yes. ‘Oh.’” Bittle sighs again. “Didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped, but like this Parse says—you two changed. You built something new. I want that for my Kent, too.” He gives him a sideways glance. “So long as you don’t fuck things up again, I’m willing to give it a shot. How about you?”

“I—yes,” Jack tells him, earnest. Being friends with Parse again? He’ll take that in a heartbeat. “Yes.”

Bittle smiles, close-mouthed and serious. “Then it’s a deal.”  

 

\---

 

The heat as soon as they leave the air-conditioned building is oppressive, sunlight radiating from every surface, the air itself shimmering as the concrete all but sizzles.

Jack can feel the sunburn coming on within seconds of stepping outside, blinking warily. Bittle, of course, moves like he’s made for the weather, despite the dry desert being miles away from his native humid Georgia. His blond hair seems to soak up the sunshine, the fine hairs on his muscled forearms glinting gold as he waves away Parse’s attempts to grab hold of his bag.

“Parse, you’re already carrying two-thirds of our luggage. I can handle a duffel bag,” he says, exasperated, gesturing at the small mountain of suitcases that Parse is dragging behind him.

Jack clears his throat. “I could help with that,” he offers.

Parse shakes his head. “No, man, it’s—”

Jack grabs three of his bags and hauls them over his shoulder, ignoring Parse’s protests.

“I had that!”

Eric snickers. “See? Now you know how I feel.”

“That’s right,” Jack says placidly. “Listen to Bittle, Parse.”

Bittle glances at him, surprised, but adamantly agrees; the two of them gang up on Parse right up until they reach a flashy red car and the Aces’ Jeffrey Troy sticks his head out.

“Hey, Parser! Hey, Eric! Missed you guy— _Zimmermann?_ What are you doing here?” Troy says, his mouth dropping open.

Parse and Jack both turn to look at Bittle, who turns to look at Parse.

“You didn’t tell him?” Parse asks.

“No, I thought _you_ told him,” Bittle says, incredulous.

Jack stands there awkwardly and wonders if he needs to call a cab.

 

\---

 

They don’t call a cab.

Instead, they pass it off as Parse generously putting up a friend who’s in town for “business reasons.”

“…sure. You and Zimmermann. Friends. Right,” Troy says, skeptical, glancing at Jack, who’s riding shotgun in what everybody decided was the least awkward of seating arrangements.

Parse leans forward and punches Troy in the shoulder. “Yes, we’re _friends_. Don’t be jealous, dude.”

Troy’s mouth drops open in affront. “I’m not jealous, I’m just confused! Eric! Back me up here! Is this or is this not a really weird situation?”

“Comparatively speaking, it’s not that strange,” Eric says, eyes locked onto his phone. He’s holding hands with Parse, their linked fingers resting on top of his knee, Parse’s ankle hooked around his own. It’s not lost on Jack that this is the most physically affectionate they’ve been all day, and that this must be what they’re like amongst people they trust. That in order to keep Troy from becoming even more suspicious, they _have_ to indulge in PDA, not that either of them seem to mind. It’s an act, because this isn’t the Kent Parson that Bittle loves, but it’s an act that’s a natural fit, reinforcing Jack’s conviction that these two belong together, not that he’ll say it out loud.  

“Not that strange? Bro, no offense,” Troy says to Jack, “but that’s a lie, right? Like, what are you really doing here, man?”

“The Stanley Cup switched Kent with an alternate universe version of himself, and now we have to find Zimmermann’s one true love to get him back,” Bittle says, deadpan, as Parse chokes.

“Yeah, yeah, pull the other one,” Troy mutters, disbelieving. “What gives, man?”

Parse clears his throat. “Look, Swoops, I reached out to Jack a few months ago, and we sort of took things from there. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner, but baby steps, you know? And since Jack’s got to be here in Vegas, I thought, why not help him out? You know I’d never let any of my guys stay in a fucking hotel when I’ve got space.”

“And you’re one of his guys now?” Troy asks Jack.

“He never stopped being one of my guys,” Parse says, frowning.

Jack shrugs and nods, not trusting his voice to not betray how emotional that statement makes him feel.

Troy lets out a sigh. “Okay, dude, whatever you guys say.” He looks at Bittle in the rearview mirror. “You sure you’re fine with this?”

Bittle tucks his phone away. “Sweetie, if I wasn’t, both of these boys would be buried in a ditch, and you know it. I was skeptical, too, but any friend of Kenny’s is a friend of mine.” He holds up his left hand, smiling widely. “Comes with the territory, as you know.”

Troy laughs and lets the subject drop, and the conversation turns instead to Troy offering congratulations to Bittle and relentlessly chirping Parse, though the latter includes a copious amount of annoyance since Parse apparently lost him a bet.

“Man, I can’t believe you took so long that _Eric_ ended up proposing,” Troy says, shaking his head. “You had that ring since fucking _February_ and Chowder fucking calls that you wouldn’t be able to pop the question.”

“Hey!” Parse protests.

Bittle smiles and leans into his side. “Cheer up, sweetie, at least you and Mags get to split the other half.”

“July.” Troy shakes his head. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“Mags, obviously,” Parse and Bittle say simultaneously.

“Jinx,” Parse says, nudging Bittle with a smirk.

“Oh, hush you. We agreed to a permanent ceasefire when it comes to jinxes, otherwise we’ll never talk,” Bittle says, burrowing into Parse’s side right after and pressing his pleased smile against Parse’s shoulder.

“You two,” Troy says, grinning. “Always gotta be that one couple.”

Jack sits quietly in the background and tries not to let the hollowness in his chest overtake him.

 _You knew it_ , he tells himself. _You already knew he wasn’t yours—not in this universe, not in any other_.

 

\---

 

Troy helps them take out their luggage, but doesn’t head inside, citing a need to pick up someone named Mags.

“Give her my love,” Bittle instructs, an arm wrapped around Parse’s waist, and the two of them wave him goodbye together.

As soon as he rounds the bend, Bittle drops his hand from his waist, touching it to his elbow instead, and moves a half-step away. Jack can’t help but notice how Parse follows after him automatically, his body curling around Bittle’s even as he turns his head in Jack’s direction.

“C’mon,” he tells Jack, “let’s get you inside.”

 

\---

 

The house is—well.

“Oh, my goodness,” Bittle says, diving for the piles of cat-fur-covered clothes on the floor. “Please excuse the mess, I haven’t had any time to clean up. It’s normally a lot nicer, I swear.”

Parse snorts. “Pal, you keep telling yourself that.”

Bittle has a whole stack of clothes in his arms, and Jack thinks he looked unfairly adorable as he glares daggers at Parse. God, he even has the cats winding themselves demandingly around his ankles, like something straight out of a fairy tale.

Jack’s shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says, looking around him. “Your home is lovely. Very—very warm. I like the décor, did you pick it out yourself?”

Bittle pauses in his attempt to grab as many scarves and jackets as he can while shooing the cats towards Parse. “Thank you,” he says, surprised at Jack’s compliment. “Yes, we did.”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to snort. “‘We’? You do realize this is Kent Parson you’re talking about? The guy who once thought wainscoting was a name of a person? There’s no way he helped with the decorating.”

“Hey! That’s a very common mistake! I mean—‘Wayne Scotty,’ who wouldn’t be confused!” Parse splutters, Purrs tucked into his arms and eyeing him doubtfully. The other cat—Jack doesn’t know this one’s name; Parse got her after they stopped talking—has parked herself at Bittle’s feet and doesn’t look like she’s budging any time soon.

Bittle just bites his lip, hiding a smile. “Of course, honey,” he says indulgently. Turning to Jack, he states, “He helped pick the couches and the t.v. Lord knows, he needs it to watch all that tape.”

“Figures,” Jack says, nodding.

Bittle’s smile widens. “Plus, he let me waffle between about fifty different shades of paint, and got me all the samples I wanted, so he gets _some_ of the credit.”

“I see. So he was the money?” Jack asks.

“He was the money,” Bittle agrees, beaming when Parse squawks in outrage, defending his largely nonexistent interior design skills, before conceding that yes, alright, his other self probably just lived here while Eric made all the good decorating choices, fine, fine, he gets it already.

The thing is—Jack can see that. The house is all color and warmth and little homey touches, a kind of care and comfort to everything that screams Bittle’s name. He’s in every nook and cranny, every room and space from the kitchen to the study, from the bathrooms to the rec room. The house is huge, and Bittle’s personality still spills out like it can’t quite contain it.

But Parse obviously _lives_ here, too, in a way Jack can’t quite articulate except in comparison to the house he’d thought Parse would have.

Parse has always liked nice things—quality things, things that weren’t just expensive but _made well_ , even if he couldn’t afford them back when Jack knew him. Now that he’s older and has the salary to indulge his tastes, Jack always figured his house would be decorated impeccably, but also impersonally, favoring utility and class over anything else.

Parse has also always been strangely attached to his possessions, holding onto old skate guards and ticket stubs, stubbornly keeping cracked coffee mugs or sunglasses just because his mom or sister bought them for him. He tends to hoard the things he loves, hides them away out of sight in boxes or under beds, and taking them out only when he’s comfortable. Jack wouldn’t have been surprised if he had a whole closet in his house dedicated to those precious items, hidden way in the back where nobody could stumble upon it by accident.

The oddest thing about this house is that the entire thing seems to be that closet. Or, rather, Parse’s precious things are everywhere. His guitar is out in the open, his jerseys are proudly displayed on the wall, there’s a collection of green and blue pebbles in the guest bathroom that’s been significantly added to, but is still the same one that Jack remembers him having back in the Q. His books are on the shelves, his CDs are free to be rifled through, and the photos—

God, the photos. He’s in every single one, looking deliriously happy and unguarded in a way that’s notoriously difficult to catch on camera. Jack would know—he’s tried, and only rarely succeeded.

Except it’s not so rare anymore, apparently. All you have to do is put Bittle by his side, or in the room, or possibly behind the camera itself, and there it will be: Parse’s dopey, mega-watt, “fuck, I’m so happy to see you that I’m practically vibrating” grin.

 _He’s not hiding anything_ , Jack realizes. _He’s not—he’s not hiding who he is_.

This is Parse’s home. He lives here. He’s _loved_ here, and he’s not afraid to show it.

Jack lies in one of the many guest rooms, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that he knows exactly why that is, exactly who put Parse front and center in every room in this house, exactly how Parse is able to feel so comfortable and safe having everything out in the open like this.

His name is Eric Richard Bittle, and Jack never had a chance, did he?

Jack closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

 

\---

 

In the next room over, Kent Parson, Kent Parson, and Eric Bittle talk:

“You made it home safe?” Kenny asks.

“Yes, baby,” Eric says. He reaches over and grabs hold of Kit, holding her up so Kenny can see her, making her wave a paw hello. Beside him, Parse does the same with Purrs. “See? Everybody’s fine.”

Kenny scratches at the side of his face, smiling tiredly. “That’s good,” he says.

Eric frowns at him. “Sugar, have you been eating right?” he asks, glancing between Kenny and Parse. His Kenny looks skinnier, more haggard, and Eric doesn’t think it’s just the lighting.

“Hm? Yeah, of course,” Kenny says, automatic.

Eric narrows his eyes. “Sugar.”

Kenny sighs. “Eric, really, it’s not so bad. I just—haven’t had too much of an appetite, so I’m not as bulked up as I should be. But I’ll be fine once the season starts, promise.”

Eric frowns, ready to nag him some, but Parse starts talking first: “You look fine to me,” he says easily, and elbows Eric. “Don’t compare him to me, bro, you’ve been feeding me nonstop since I got here. I’ve eaten more than I have in forever. I’m probably overweight at this point.”

Eric pinches his side. “Honey, not even close,” he says, and Parse smiles, wide and real.

“Seriously, though, I’m mad jealous, dude,” he tells Kenny lightly. “Swear to God, you get the best take-out. I’m remembering some of these places for when I get home.”

Eric elbows him. “Here you are, rambling on about take-out! What about my cooking?” he demands.

Parse rolls his eyes. “Bro, we’ve already established that your cooking is fucking orgasmic, okay. I mean, I knew that even in my universe.”

“Oh, God, yes,” Kenny agrees.

Eric frowns. “Oh? So he’s good?”

“Babe, he’s you, of course he’s good,” Kenny says, at the same time Parse answers, “He has a fucking cooking show, like, even I can’t deny that I’d murder somebody for a slice of his apple pie.”

Eric purses his lips. “Well, that’s true. He _is_ a professional, I guess.”

Kenny’s eyes widen in realization. “Don’t worry, yours are better,” he assures him.

“What? Bro, they seem identical to—oh. Yeah. I mean, yours are really good, too,” Parse says right after, and _these boys_ , honestly. Eric bites back a smile.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just being petty,” Eric says, waving a hand. “I just don’t like the idea of people feeding you up when that’s my job, I guess.”

 _Both of you_ , he thinks quietly. Not for the first time, he wonders if there were some way to keep both—but, no. Parse had a home to get back to, and there’s no way he’s giving up Kenny. Not ever.

“Eric,” Kenny says, looking torn.

“Don’t worry, baby, I swear I’m good,” Eric says, shaking off his thoughts and pulling on a smile. Wouldn’t do to worry him. “Tell me about your day, sugar,” he instructs, and he settles back against the headboard, his shoulder brushing Parse’s on accident.

Parse doesn’t pull away, and they sit there and listen to Kenny talk in companionable silence.

 _I’m going to miss you_ , Eric thinks, wistful.

 

\---

 

Kent Parson wakes up in the guest bedroom with his cats on top of him, and tries and fails not to be disappointed that he didn’t wake up next to Eric.

Despite the less-than-stellar start to the day, overall Kent’s inclined to call it a productive one. Eric heads to the rink, Jack and Kent work out, and then Kent accompanies Jack so he can casually “reconnect” with Camilla Collins, providing plausible deniability by signing up for doubles tennis lessons so he can surprise his significant other. Like Kent said, he’s a pretty awesome wingman, if he does say so himself.

“Holy fuck, Zimms, why is your type so fucking obvious?” Kent says after, jostling Jack affectionately as they make their way into the house. “Wanted: One True Love for Jack Zimmermann. Brunettes and redheads need not apply, and neither should tall people.”

Jack scowls at him and jostles him back. “You do realize that you’re calling yourself short, right?”

Kent pauses. He wasn’t aware he’d ever been in the running for the position. “Well, fuck,” he says, trying for disgruntled, though all he feels is a quiet ache. Maybe the other Kent Parson really had a point when he said he was avoiding confronting his feelings for Zimms. “I take that back, then.”

“Too late,” Jack says, deadpan, and he rests his arm on top of Kent’s head like the fucking asshole he is.

Well, Kent can’t let that stand, can he? He elbows Jack and starts an epic wrestling match, the kind they haven’t had since they were teenagers. Kent’s always been too afraid of getting too close, clinging too much, but that’s not a problem here. Jack’s the one who started it, and anyway, he’s single here—

 _Oh, fuck no_ , Kent tells his heart, his eyes widening in sudden shock. _Don’t you fucking dare_.

In his distraction, Jack manages to get an arm around his knee, and Kent goes down, just in time for Eric to come through the door and watch him fall face-first at his feet.

“What on earth are you two doing?” Eric asks, tossing his jacket, gloves, and scarf onto the nearest table.

“I have no clue, but he fucking started it,” Kent accuses as Jack chuckles quietly.

(Later on, Kent will think that that’s an accurate summation of everything that happened.)

 

\---

 

A conversation between Jack Zimmermann and Camilla Collins, somewhere on the Hilton Hotel’s tennis courts:

“So _that’s_ Kent Parson,” she says, raising a teasing brow at him.

“Um,” Jack Zimmermann says, blushing.

Camilla laughs.

 

\---

 

Kent buys a huge-ass mirror on wheels—it’s kinda like those moveable white-boards, but bigger, and with a mirror instead, obviously.

Eric stares as he and Jack maneuver it through the foyer. “Honey, what on earth…?”

“Surprise! Now you can talk to your Kent in every room,” Kent tells him.

Eric blinks. “Oh,” he says, small-voiced. “That’s—oh.”

Kent clears his throat. “I also got noise-cancelling headphones, in case you guys need to have a private conversation and you don’t want me listening in.”

Eric’s brows wing upward in surprise. “You mean, like for sex things?”

Kent flushes red. “Wha—no! I meant—just for private things, Jesus, oh, my God, can we not? I still have to be in the same fucking room, you know!”

Jack snickers. “I don’t know why you’re so scandalized. Didn’t you once say you’d sleep with your own clone if you ever met him?”

“That was hypothetical and I was _seventeen_ ,” Kent hisses, glancing at Eric.

Eric is looking at Jack, and he’s smiling. For a second, Kent’s reminded so hard of Bitty, it trips him up. “Lord, did he really?” Eric asks, and Kent shakes his head to clear it.

“Yes,” Jack says, looking surprised but pleased to see Eric smiling at him. “It was one of those ‘would you ever’ games, and Parse kept on choosing the most outrageous answers—”

“Well, excuse me for not being a bland-ass boring ho,” Kent snarks back.

“You, boring? Baby, you could never,” Eric says fondly, and Kent can’t help it—he looks at him and he grins, all exuberant joy, reveling when Eric grins back.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Jack start to edge away, but he grabs hold of his sleeve.

“Help me pull it into the kitchen?” he asks.

“Uh, sure,” Jack says, glancing at Eric. “Why the kitchen, though?”

Kent laughs. “Fuck, man, where do you think we spend all our time in this house?”

“Um.” Jack blushes a little, and Kent suddenly realizes how that sentence could be taken.

“Parse!” Eric hisses, blushing, too, and at this rate _Kent’s_ going to go red as well, damn it.

“So! Mirror! Let’s move it!” he declares, grabbing the thing, and Jack obliges, thank fucking God.

As they move past living room number three, Kent catches Jack glancing at him again, then glancing at the walls, frowning. “What?” Kent demands.

“Your eyes change color,” Jack says.

Kent rolls said eyes. “Well, duh, we established that I’ve got anime eyes ages ago, pal.”

Jack frowns a little harder. “No, I mean—they change color in every room. Was that on purpose?” he asks Eric.

Eric bumps into one of the side tables. “Um. Well. No,” he says, but he’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt and not looking them directly in the eye, so Kent knows he’s lying.

Great. Now Kent’s blushing for sure.

“It is on purpose,” Jack says, satisfied. “I thought so. Why would all the rooms be different shades of blue otherwise?”

“Oh, goodness,” Eric says, covering his face with his hands. “Please don’t tell Kenny. He doesn’t know why I had him hold the paint samples up by his face, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Jack tilts his head. “But why?” he asks. “It’s cute.”

Eric blinks. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

Jack shakes his head. “No. If I figured out how to make them change short of making him angry, I think I’d have done it, too, in our place.”

Now it’s Kent’s turn to blink. “You—really?” he says, incredulous.

Jack looks away. “Eh. Well. I always thought it was interesting, how your eyes did that.”

 _No_ , Kent wants to say. _You thought about getting a place with me?_

He clears his throat instead. “Whatever, dudes. I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

“Please do,” Eric says. “I love your eyes.”

And Kent nearly has a heart attack when Jack just nods in agreement, he and Eric sharing a look of agreement.

Okay. That’s. Whatever, Kent’s got a mirror to move, and he’s gonna move it.

Kent rolls his shoulders and pushes through.

 

\---

 

Jack has to admit that dinner is very…strange. There’s no other word for it, not when it involves six people who are technically just three people, only clones of each other.

Bittle—Eric, Jack corrects himself, sets both Parse and him on chopping duty, and puts some music on. The other Parse—Kenny, as Eric likes to call him, the nickname rolling off of his tongue as easily as it had off Jack’s, a lifetime ago—Kenny, Bitty, and Jack’s alternate-self have already eaten. They’re sitting out in the living room, where the windows are widest and provide the best view.

“I fucking love you,” Kenny says to Parse. “A mobile mirror? That’s fucking genius.”

“You do realize that you’re complimenting yourself?” Bitty chirps, and Parse grins.

“Well, why shouldn’t he? We are fucking genuises,” Parse quips.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Bitty says, amused, and Jack feels slightly off-kilter again. Bitty gets along so well with everyone in the room: trading chirps comfortably with Parse, bantering with Kenny, politely conversing with Eric, and treating both Jack and his alternate-self with an identical sort of teasing fondness.

Jack can see why his other-self fell in love with him. He is their type, after all.

Blond? Check. Extrovert? Check. Cute, holdable butt?

…check.

Jack’s trying his best not to notice it, though. Kenny’s still a little wary of him, and he doesn’t want him to think he’s intruding or anything.

A song comes on that Jack vaguely recognizes, and Kenny starts singing along absent-mindedly.

Eric pauses where he’s frying the chicken strips. His grip tightens around the handle of the frying pan, and when Kenny finishes, he swipes at his eyes.

“That was good, honey,” he calls out, his voice carefully cheerful, and Jack waits until everyone’s attention is focused elsewhere to discreetly hand him a tissue.   

“Oh,” Eric says, looking up at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jack says. He knows what it’s like, hearing Kenny singing and not being able to touch him, not being able to let it show how much he misses him.

He touches Eric’s shoulder in solidarity before moving away.

 

\---

 

The three of them—well, the six of them, if you want to get technical—quickly settle into a routine: meet up in the morning for breakfast to discuss goals for the day, break so everybody can go and train (or, in Bitty’s case, work), spend the afternoon wooing people/acting as wingmen, and then reconvene for dinner and strategize.

Not that there weren’t a few hiccups here and there. For example, Kent’s counterpart forgetting about the time difference and starting the spell up while Eric was plastered against Kent for his morning full-body stretches, dressed in his _very_ tight tights and a tank top that was practically sheer. Just as Kent brought him closer, the whole wall of mirrors turned into a window that revealed Bitty, Jack, and alternate-Kent’s shocked faces, which quickly turned mortified.

“Sweet baby Jesus!” Eric yelps, his thigh still pressed intimately to Kent’s chest, Kent keeping a tight hold on his lower back to prevent him from falling.

“Oh, my God,” Bitty says, covering his eyes. “What the hell are y’all _doing?”_

“Stretching!” Eric replies, indignant, though his righteous outrage is somewhat ruined by his completely red face.

“Um,” Jack says, staring kinda rudely if Kent did say so himself. He met Jack’s eyes and raised a pointed brow, and Jack finally looked away, flushing as he did so, which was. Weird. But then again, Eric was alternate-Bitty, so it probably gave him ideas, and Kent can’t exactly blame the guy. Like, it gives him ideas, too, and he’s not even dating him.

“Oh, God, early morning stretches,” the other Kent says, groaning. “Baby, I can’t believe I’m missing those.”

Eric’s body relaxes from where it had gone tense against Kent’s. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “But Parse here is being very helpful.”

“Helpful. Yes. We can see that,” Bitty says, a hand still covering his eyes, so, no, he can’t, actually.

“Dude, it’s just stretching,” Kent scoffs, hoping his basketball shorts are loose enough to hide his semi.

“ _Just_ stretching? Oh, my God,” mirror-Kent laments. “You have _no_ idea what you’re missing out on.”

Which is _true_ , but did he really need to rub it in?

“Anyway, we’ll leave you to it so call back later, okay?” Bitty says, still stubbornly not looking.

“Oh. Yes. We’ll—we’ll do that,” mirror-Kent says, looking regretful.

“I mean…you don’t _have_ to, sugar,” Eric says, lowering his eyelashes. “You could just…watch. I don’t think I’d mind that.”

Both Kents swallow hard.

 _Fuck me_ , Kent thinks when his counterpart nods his head and agrees.

“Okay, that’s—you know, I’m just going to go and make some pancakes. Honey, some help?” Bitty says, standing up and walking towards the kitchen, his eyes averted.

“Um. Right. Yes,” Jack goes, unheeding of Kent’s telepathic plea to either stay in this awkward hell with him or somehow take him with him.

 _Damn it, Zimms, I thought we were friends_ , he thinks, glaring at Jack’s hastily retreating back.

“Thank you!” Eric calls after them, actually sounding grateful for once. Then his eyes lock onto his fiancé’s and he smiles, wolfish and eager. “See?” he says, his voice low as he leans a little harder into Kent’s body. “You’re not missing out on too much, sugar.”

Kent Parson looks at the ceiling and wills himself not to spontaneously combust. It mostly works.

 

\---

 

A conversation between Kent Parson and Jack Zimmermann, in the dining room adjacent Eric Bittle’s kitchen, sometime in the beginning of the week:

“Dude, what the fuck?” Parse says, laughing, and Eric looks up from where he’s stirring the alfredo sauce to see Parse elbowing Zimmermann on the couch. He’s pulling Zimmermann’s hand towards himself, his eyes locked onto the phone screen.

Zimmermann’s eyes are locked onto Parse, and Eric stifles an exasperatedly fond sigh, because who the hell does he think he’s fooling? This boy, honestly. Not that Eric can blame him, though, since he’s the exact same way around Kent.

Eric blinks a second afterward, processing his feelings. Wait a second. Did he just _empathize_ with Jack Zimmermann? _Jack Zimmermann?_ Over having feelings for his fiancé? What the hell?

While Eric is having a mini-crisis, Parse continues to chirp Zimmermann relentlessly.

“Bro,” Parse says, “how the fuck is your game this bad? ‘I like this one analysis of the effects of the Great Depression on Canada’s involvement in WWII,’” he says in a passable imitation of Zimmermann’s accent, then dissolves into gasping giggles again. “What the hell, man?”

Zimmermann’s lips are twitching, too, but he elbows Parse back and says, “What? She asked what I found interesting, and I answered.”

“But you’re supposed to be flirting!” Parse says.

“I am!”

“Liar! You fucking douche, that is _not_ you flirting.”

“Just because I don’t immediately send half-naked selfies every five minutes—”

“Fuck off, man, that’s not what I meant.” Parse rolls his eyes and leans his shoulder against Zimmermann’s. “What I’m saying is that I _know_ you’re not flirting because that’s how you text me all the time, man, so don’t bullshit me. I know when you’re not bringing your A-game.”

Zimmermann freezes for a second, his eyes darting over to Eric. Eric looks back at him and raises a knowing brow and gestures at Parse.

 _Well_ , he indicates with a nod, _go on_.

Zimmermann pauses a moment, then deliberately turns his attention back to Parse, not moving away when Parse moves in closer.

 _It’s fine_ , Eric tells himself. _It’s not your Kenny, and Lord knows Kent Parson is hard to resist, in any universe._

Eric goes back to stirring the sauce, and therefore misses the look Jack Zimmermann sends his way, thoughtful and appraising.

 

\---

 

A conversation between Eric Bittle, Kent Parson, and Jack Zimmermann:

“Honey,” Bitty says, and Kent Parson, Kent Parson, and Jack Zimmermann all answer, “Yeah?”

“Oh,” Bitty says, blushing. “I, um. I was talking to, um, Zimmermann. He’s, uh, he’s got something on his chin.”

“Oh,” Zimmermann says, all wide blue eyes, and Eric passes him a napkin wordlessly.

 

\---

 

“Sweetheart,” Eric says ten minutes later, and Kenny, Parse, and Jack all answer, yet again, “Yeah?”

“Oh, Lord,” Eric says, exchanging an exasperated look with Bitty. “We’ve got ’em all too well-trained.”

Everybody glances at each other for a beat, then bursts into laughter.

 

\---

 

Eric comes home with a tape of his routines, and Kent insists on watching, so they move the mirror in front of the t.v. in the rec room.

“Wow,” Jack says, impressed, during a run-through of his free program. “Bits, you’re amazing.”

Eric look at him and blushes. Was he talking to him, or to Bitty? “Uh, thank you?” he says after a moment, deciding that since _he’s_ the one who did the skating, he’s the one who’ll do the answering.

Parse grins. “Well, dude, what the hell did you expect? He’s an Olympic medalist.”

“What place again?” Jack asks Eric, but someone else answers first.

“Silver,” Zimmermann says firmly.

Eric turns his head, surprised. “You remember?”

Zimmermann looks at him and blinks, also surprised. “Of course,” he says, as if this should be taken for granted. “That’s when we started to—” He clears his throat, discomfited. “It was the Olympics,” he says instead. “Kind of hard to forget it.”

Well. That was certainly one way of looking at it, yes, though there were other reasons for it to be memorable, not the least of which was their disaster of a conversation.

Eric looks at Jack Zimmermann, sitting awkwardly on his couch, and thinks he might not be able to forget the things Zimmermann said, but he’s well on his way to forgiving him for them.

 

\---

 

A conversation between Kent Parson and Eric Bittle, Kent Parson in the background with his handy-dandy headphones on:

“Oh, my God, Eric,” Kenny says, “swear to God, please, please, _please_ play hockey with me when I get back? Please?”

“Sugar,” Eric says, exasperated. “I’m telling you, I don’t think I’ll be any good.”

“Noooo,” Kenny says. “Baby, you’re so good. Seriously, please, you in hockey gear and killing it on the ice is, like, in the top five hottest things I’ve ever seen, easy.”

“Top five, huh?” Eric says, crossing his arms.

Kenny grins at him, wolfish. “Well, I have seen you land a quad lutz in competition. And, you know, you naked. That’s always pretty much going to be number one on the list.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

Eric sneaks a look over his shoulder where Parse is on the beanbag, reading, and turns back around. “Yeah?” he asks breathily. “Wanna tell me more about it?”

Kenny’s grin widens, and he complies.

 

\---

 

“Um,” Eric says to Parse after they cut the call, blushing. “I’m just gonna…head to the bathroom. Night!”

“Right,” Parse says back, blushing, too. “I’ll let you go. Do that then. G’night.”

Eric closes the door.

 

\---

 

Parse gets held up at a meeting with Aces management one day, and he asks Jack if he could pick up Eric.

“No problem,” Jack says. He and Eric have been getting along better lately, so it wouldn’t be a burden on Eric, he thinks. He gets the address and heads there at the indicated time.

As soon as he steps inside the rink, however, somebody says, high-pitched and excited, _“Jack Zimmermann?”_

“Oh,” he says, taken aback. “Yes?”

And so it is that Eric finds him ten minutes later, signing autographs and taking pictures with a group of very enthusiastic hockey fans of the like he hadn’t really encountered here in Vegas until now.

“Guys!” Eric says, scolding, “what on earth are you all doing? Hassling poor Zimmermann like this.”

“Mr. Eric!” one of the kids says. “You know Jack Zimmermann?”

“Well, yes. He and Kenny are friends,” Eric answers.

“They _are?”_ they all shriek.

“You know Mr. Kent?” a wide-eyed seven-year-old asks him, tugging on his sleeve.

“Um, yes,” Jack answers. “He and I have known each other since we were kids.”

“Amazing,” she breathes. “Mr. Kent’s my favorite, you know.”

The kids around her all shout in agreement, declarations of, “He’s my favorite, too!” filling the air.

“Hey, kiddos, get a move on. You’re blocking the hallway,” a young dark-haired woman says. The children disperse, and she turns around to face Jack and Eric; the intense stare she sends his way reminds Jack of Lardo. “Inez Herrera,” she says, holding out her hand. “Any friend of Kent’s is a friend of mine.”

“Jack Zimmermann,” he answers, “and same.”

She nods, satisfied, and turns to Eric. “So, he gonna be one of the groomsmen?”

“Oh, Lord,” Eric says, blushing. “I...guess? Maybe.”

Jack looks at him, surprised. Kenny hadn’t—Kenny had thawed a little towards him, yes, but Jack wasn’t sure they were quite there yet. “Really?” he blurts out.

Eric looks at him. “Well, probably. Honestly, you’ve always been real important to him, you know.”

Inez looks at him appraisingly. “You want to be in the video?”

“Inez!” Eric says, blushing.

“What video?” Jack asks, confused.

Inez just grins. “The congratulations video, of course.”

“You mean the ‘Embarrass Eric in Front of All His Friends and Family’ video,” Eric mutters. “And, no, he doesn’t want to be in it.”

“Mm, really? Too bad. I’ll give you my number just in case you change your mind,” she says, and she hands over a business card, pats Eric on the back, and strides gracefully away.

“Give me that,” Eric mutters, trying to grab the card. Something impish in Jack says not to let him, and he holds it up over his head instead. Eric tries unsuccessfully to lower his arm and get it anyway, but after a minute or so, has to concede grudging defeat.

“Really?” Eric says, crossing his arms and glaring at him.

“Hey, what idiot would throw away the number of the current reigning U.S. champ?” Jack answers, teasing, and Eric smiles, sudden and bright.

“You recognized her!” he says, and Jack blinks, feeling slightly winded for some odd reason. He nods.

That’s apparently encouragement enough to get Eric to talk all about her and the rest of his rink, speaking of his team and his crew with such fondness and warmth that Jack understands they must be like a second family to him.

“Oh, and you really wouldn’t believe what Woo Jin tried to do yesterday,” Eric says.

“What?” Jack says encouragingly.

“He brought one of those microwaveable meals!” Eric says, affronted. “To my rink! That stupid fancy brand that caters to athletes, you know—” He rattles off the name, and Jack blinks.

“Oh, those,” he says. “I like them. They’re pretty good.”

“ _What?”_ Eric shouts, appalled.

Jack looks at him, nonplussed. “They’re…good?” he repeats.

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” Eric says, his eyes wide and horrified. “Honey, what lies have they been telling you? They’re not good! Those things are barely edible! They taste like cardboard!”

“But they’re convenient,” Jack argues. “And nutritious.” They were on the approved diet plan, and it was easier than making his own meals, some days.

“No,” Eric says, shaking his head. “Oh, no, no. No. Not in my house. We’re just—we’re going to set you straight, sweetheart, okay? This is just—it’s unacceptable, is what it is.”

“Okay,” Jack says, confused. “But they’re really not that bad?”

 

\---

 

“ _Not that bad_ ,” Bitty shouts when they get to the house. Jack’s alternate-self is out with Tater and some of the other Falcs, but Kenny’s there, and on their side, Parse is curled up on the dining room couch, fast asleep. “Honey, no! Who’s been feeding you?” Bitty demands.

“Um…myself?” Jack says.

Bitty pales. “Oh, dear.”

“I know,” Eric says, nodding. For once, they’re in complete agreement.

“This is terrible,” Bitty says.

“Isn’t it?” Eric replies.

“I mean—microwavable meals?” Bitty says, outraged.

Eric gestures in agreement. “Right? What monster would even.”

“Oh, God. They taste like _cardboard_.”

“You’re right. You’re exactly right.”

They start talking to each other, trading recipes and coming up with meal plans, both of them throwing around incomprehensible jargon, looking at Jack every now and then and shaking their heads.

Jack leaves them to it.

“Zimms,” Kenny murmurs, smirking at him through the mirror, “I can’t believe you admitted to Eric that you eat that stuff.”

Jack blinks. Kenny’s—Kenny’s talking to him normally. “Don’t you start,” he says, trying his best to sound casual in return. He’s got this. He sounds fine around Parse, doesn’t he?

(He sounds lovesick around Parse, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“You’re as bad as I am with all your goddamn Hot Cheetos and your Oreo O’s,” Jack argues.

“Oh, please, at least I can cook,” Kenny says, and Jack is opening his mouth to reply when Eric comes over and tugs on his sleeve.

“Come here, honey,” he says. “I’m going to teach you how to use the slow-cooker, okay?” He turns his head towards the mirror. “You said he likes roast beef?”

“Oh, yes,” Bitty says. “It’s one of the only things Alicia could cook, so he ate it all the time when he was young. Loved it with—”

“Celery and carrots,” Kenny finishes, absent-minded.

“Oh,” Jack says, flushing.

Bitty looks at him, his gaze softening. “Sorry, honey,” he says gently. “This must be weird for you, huh?” He looks over at Kenny. “And you, too, of course.” He looks over at Parse’s sleeping form. “And Parse,” Bitty says, even more softly.

Jack doesn’t know what to make of the look in his eyes.

Bitty bites his lip, then squares his shoulders. “Hey, Eric?” he calls.

“What?” Eric says warily, tilting his head.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he says. “You take care of Parse and Zimmermann, and I’ll take care of your Kent.”

“Well, excuse me, but I’ve already been doing that,” Eric says, mock-affronted, “haven’t I, Jack?”

Jack glances at him. That’s the first time he’s ever used Jack’s first name. “Yes,” he answers, a little surprised to find that it’s actually true. Eric’s been nothing but polite and caring, the way he is towards everyone.

But considering that this is Eric, and Jack suspects that he himself was recently Person Number One on Eric’s hit-list, this is saying something.

“Yes,” Jack repeats, looking right at Bitty. “He takes good care of us.”

 

\---

 

(When he looks at Kenny, his eyes are a murky blue-gray and unreadable.

Jack doesn’t know what to say to him, and so he says nothing.

Like always, his silence speaks for itself.)

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...okay, so it's been a few weeks. *sheepish smile* 
> 
> Reasons for the very messed up schedule: 1) The Holidays - they were wonderful! I was just busy, alas, and didn't have as much time as I wanted to concentrate on this story. 2) I had to finish my PB&J Epifest fic, which was supposed to be 20K. Guess what the final word count was? *cough*60K*coughcough*
> 
> ...I'm incapable of writing short things, is the thing. It's [over here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13016382/chapters/29768370), by the way, if anyone likes Practical Magic AUs. :D
> 
> Anyway, I wrote so much for this chapter that I had to cut it in half, and I've got about 3K of the next chapter written, so if all goes well, I _will_ see you next Sunday night, Pacific Coast Time. ^^ (Also, yes, I increased the chapter count again, because f*** it, I'll slow-burn it if I want to, and be as long-winded as I feel like being.)
> 
> Special mentions this week go to: gutsybitsies, for being the best beta ever and helping to get me in the zimbits groove (look, I love them, they're just so sweet it takes a bit sometimes) and constantly taking the time to read over these _massive_ chapters. Julorean  & bookwyrmling, for being my betas for the Epifest fic; they kept me writing through all of December, honestly. G, for being the best sister anybody could ask for - thank you for following me into PB&J hell through multiple AUs, to the point where you have to flip a switch in your brain to remember which one I'm talking about, lmao. The OMGCP Discord Group, for all the sprints and headcanons and laughs. 
> 
> Thanks also to everyone who commented on this fic, even though I am taking so long to reply to you - any time you tell me your reaction, or your favorite line, or even just that you stayed up late to read this - you make my day (special shout-out to INDAMNEDbrilliance, because you compared me to freakin' _Richard Siken_ , and I may or may not have cried). 
> 
> And to all my readers - thanks for sticking around. I had a lot to celebrate over the holidays, and getting to write for such an enthusiastic and attentive crowd is one of those things. Cheers, and may 2018 be the year we all kick ass. ^^


	10. i can’t tell you—but you feel it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent doesn’t find what he’s looking for that night, either. Bitty gives a silent sigh of relief before catching himself.
> 
>  _What the hell?_ he tells himself sternly. _You **want** him to fall in love with someone else._
> 
> (Except…maybe there’s a part of him that doesn’t.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: So, this chapter earns its M-rating yet again due to accidental voyeurism, in that two characters overhear another character dirty-talking rather explicitly. Also, there's alcohol consumption and drunken make-outs, so watch for that, too, in the section that begins: "Two bars, three dance clubs, and an inadvisable amount of margaritas later."
> 
> Thanks as always to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for being an awesome, awesome beta. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/I_can%27t_tell_you_%E2%80%94_but_you_feel_it_%E2%80%94). ^^

\---

 

_I can't tell you — but you feel it —_  
_Nor can you tell me —_  
_Saints, with ravished slate and pencil_  
_Solve our April Day!_

 

\---

 

Sometime in late June, before the madness descended:

“Hello, Mr. Parson, this is your scheduled daily reminder to book your flight to Providence for the last week of July—just making sure that in your old age you don’t accidentally forget—”

“Old age? Fuck you, Bittle, I’m barely a month older than Jack.”

“Yeah, which means you’re pushing thirty. Everybody knows that’s when the pretty ones lose all semblance of sense.”

“Oh, so you admit I’m pretty.”

“I admit you’re pretty dumb, and that I have no confidence in your organizational skills. Do you remember last year how you accidentally booked a ticket for Sunday when you meant to fly out Saturday?”

“Hey, I ended up flying in on time anyway, so cut me some slack, Bittle.”

Bitty rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at his mouth anyway. “You were _not_ on time, you were three hours late.”

“I was late to the party, not my own flight! And that’s because I got lost! Providence’s streets are messed up, man!”

“You tell yourself that, Parson.”

“…hey.”

“Mm? What is it?”

“You sure this is okay? I mean—a whole week. You sure I’m not—”

“Parson, if the next words out of your mouth are, ‘I don’t want to be a burden,’ I’m going to post that picture you accidentally sent me of the close-up of your sunburned nose on Instagram.”

“…you know, you’re kind of a fucking bastard, Bittle.”

“Takes one to know one, Parson.”

“…so.”

“So. We’ll see you in July?”   

“You’ll see me in July.”

They don’t bother with goodbyes and just hang up. The smile stays on Bitty’s face for minutes after anyway.

 

\---

 

The past few days have possibly been the most surreal of Bitty’s entire life, but he supposes it’s a natural consequence of the situation. After all, it’s not every day that the alternate version of your boyfriend’s ex shows up on your doorstep needing a base of operations while he finds a significant other on behalf of the _original_ version.

Bitty gets a headache just thinking about it.

Kent is the perfect guest, though, at the very least, extremely kind and polite and solicitous, though Bitty doesn’t think he’s imagining the new distance that he’s putting between them. Kent’s not acting the way he did during those first few days here in Providence, when it seemed like he couldn’t go further than ten feet away from Bitty, when he was nothing but warm smiles and warmer looks, hands always reaching out to touch (but always pulling back at the last second).

It had been…nice. To think that Parse had wanted him that way. To think that _he_ could possibly be the recipient of that effortless charm, that intense focus. He honestly didn’t even think it was anything more than casual flirtation on Parse’s part, but he’d still been flattered.

Bitty’s a little embarrassed to concede that Jack had been right—Kent _had_ been acting like he was in love with him. It’s only made more obvious now that he’s _stopped_ acting that way, the contrast between the two states as evident as the contrast between day and night. Kent treats Bitty like a friend now, and not a particularly close one, at that. It makes sense, since they don’t really know each other, but the difference makes his skin itch, especially because this isn’t the way _Parse_ treats him, either.

He and Parse don’t handle each other with kid gloves—there’s never any hesitation in the barbs and jabs they fling at each other, neither of them minding the edge in their bickering, the fond and familiar exasperation underlying most of their interactions. It’s _genuine_ , what they have—it may have _started out_ as a grudging truce, an acquaintanceship based on their mutual desire to see Jack Zimmermann happy, but that’s certainly not what it is anymore.

Bitty looks forward to their Twitter exchanges, to the chirps they’ll toss each other on practically every social media platform, to the competition they have on whoever can come up with the best playlists in Spotify. He can depend on the fact that no matter how snarky their “feud” gets, he can still count on Parse to promote any of his events, to talk up Bitty’s accomplishments. He knows that Parse will fight back hard against any comments homophobic assholes send in Bitty’s direction—it’s even gotten him into trouble with the Aces’ GM sometimes, but Bitty knows that that doesn’t deter him.

Parse looks out for his own, after all. They may not be the warmest or cuddliest of friends, but they _are_ friends—just because sarcasm is their preferred mode of communication doesn’t mean that Bitty doesn’t _care_ about Parse.   

Hence, his utter confusion and irritation at how Kent seems to have decided to treat him with nothing but politeness, like he’s afraid of getting too close and of pushing too hard. It’s even more annoying because that’s not how he treats the _other_ Eric at all.

Bitty watches the way Kent watches Eric, and tries not to feel disoriented at how bizarre it all is. Kent is just—love just pours out of him, endearments and affection dropping heedlessly from his lips, his shoulder constantly pressed to the glass of whatever reflective surface is showing Eric, his face lighting up whenever Eric so much as says his name.

Right now, Eric is in his kitchen (which is admittedly gorgeous—Bitty’s not jealous, exactly, but he is a _little_ envious—his kitchen here at their apartment is lovely, but Lord knows it doesn’t have the square footage of Kent’s house in Vegas), elbow-deep in flour, making a complicated lattice for a pie for someone named Mags, Parse sitting beside him and helping dutifully. Bitty has to admit he makes a pretty good assistant in the kitchen, a fact that he’d already discovered from Parse’s previous visits to Providence. For someone who confesses that he mostly lives off of junk food during off-season, Parse is quite good at following recipes, even if he _does_ rope Bitty into chopping competitions that are extremely unfair and biased in his favor. Just because Bitty is a baker, not a chef, does _not_ make Parse a better cook than him—Bitty never had fancy Le Cordon Bleu lessons, unlike _some_ people with too much time on their hands.

Bitty really should have realized something was up when Kent showed up and was nothing but sweetly, solicitously helpful in the kitchen. Though he does come with his own set of problems, apparently, since he’s slouched across Bitty’s counter and making blatant heart-eyes at Eric, doing his best to distract him.

“Babe,” he’s saying, “babe, you’re killing me, oh, my God.”

“Kenny,” Eric says, exasperated, but Bitty’s felt his own mouth making that expression and knows that he’s two seconds away from smiling, “I’m just baking.”

“But you’re wearing the _shirt_ ,” Kent insists. “My _favorite_ shirt.”

“You mean this old thing?” Eric says, gesturing at the flannel he’s got thrown on, the sleeves rolled all the way up to his shoulders and pinned there so they don’t fall. “You really need to make up your mind, hon, you’ve got about ten different shirts you claim are your ‘favorite.’”

“That’s because all of them are my favorite,” Kent says matter-of-factly. “It’s just that this one is a _particular_ favorite, and you _know_ it.”

“Sure, sugar,” Eric says, rolling his eyes, but there’s a pleased blush on his face, and he’s not bothering to hide his smile anymore.

“You do! You know I love that shirt!”

“Mmhm.”

“And you’ve even got the sleeves rolled up, like, fuck me sideways, you _know_ you’re torturing me. C’mon, babe, please, you _have_ to do the thing for me,” Kent begs.

Parse snickers quietly, lifting a brow. “The thing?” he asks, flattening out a circle of dough.

Kent nods. “The thing,” he states. He honest-to-God pouts at Eric. “Baby, please, please, please, swear to God I’ll be so good for you when I get back—”

“Kenny, stop it,” Eric says, but his eyes are turning heated. Bitty feels a blush coming on just watching him, Lord.

“Please,” Kent begs, and Eric swallows hard.

(So does Bitty, but he’s not going to admit that.)

“Oh, fine,” Eric says, and he sets the lattice down and lifts an arm up, crooking his elbow and—

He flexes, lean muscle rippling under smooth skin, his biceps bulging and his chin tilting up in challenge.

 _Oh, my God_ , Bitty thinks, blushing from embarrassment. _That’s_ the thing?

“Oh, my God,” Kent says, breathless. He looks like he could eat Eric up and still be ravenous after. “Oh, my God, I love you, Eric.”

Eric drops his arm and lowers his lashes, obviously pleased, but playing coy about it regardless. “You’re so easy,” he accuses, shaking his head as he gets back to pie-making.

“For you? Oh, always,” Kent agrees.

“You’re such a dork,” Parse pronounces, but Bitty can see that he’s blushing, too, and he wonders if it’s because of Kent’s shamelessness or Eric’s little display. Which is—ridiculous now that he thinks about it, how arrogant of him, honestly. It’s been pretty damn clear that Parse views Eric _platonically_ , and by extension views _Bitty_ platonically, what with all the _buddy_ ’s and _pal_ ’s and hearty back-slaps he throws around.   

 _Get yourself together, Bittle_ , he tells himself sternly. _You do not need Kent Parson lusting after you to validate your own attractiveness_.

Bitty’s distracted from his thoughts by Kent leaning forward to point emphatically at Parse through the mirror. “I’m a dork who’s madly in love,” he counters, and—well. What is there to say to that? Bitty bites his lip, tension riding low in his belly, but keeps quiet all the same.

He can’t help but notice that Parse keeps quiet, too, his famed gift for words failing him for once. But, really—what is there to say?

 _There’s a universe where you and I fell in love_ , Bitty thinks. _There’s a universe where we make each other deliriously happy_. _How the hell did that happen?_

(It took seven steps, three conversations, and one broken heart, stolen out of Kent’s hands so Eric could mend it, but neither Bitty or Parse know that. Neither of them can bring themselves to ask.)

 

\---

 

When Jack gets home from his work-out, Kent is out running; this is the third time in as many days that they’ve done this, and Bitty knows that they’re deliberately avoiding each other.

“Are you sure this is the smartest thing to do?” he asks Jack.

Jack shrugs, looking halfway between sheepish and helpless. “What else can I do?” he asks. “Kent doesn’t—he’s not comfortable around me. Surely you can see that?”

Bitty sighs. “What I can see is that a few days ago you two were as close as ever, to the point that I couldn’t even tell that Kent had replaced our Parse.”

Jack fiddles with the book in his hand. “But he was pretending,” he says quietly. “Kent’s good at that. But even I—I know it’s got to be exhausting for him. I don’t want to force him to be friendly with me, not on top of everything else.”

Bitty walks over and places a kiss to the top of his head. “Honey,” he says, “I honestly think that’s worse for him? I mean—I know how much your friendship means to our Parse. Don’t you think this Kent would want a chance to have that, too?”

Jack lets out a breath. “But—” He sighs again and stops.

Bitty waits him out.  

“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “I think—I don’t know what happened in their universe, but he doesn’t want anything to do with the other Jack Zimmermann. And you—well, the other you hates him, too. That’s…it’s not much of a ringing endorsement for me, is it?”

There’s a lot to unpack in those few sentences, so Bitty ensconces himself in Jack’s lap and makes himself comfortable, making sure Jack’s okay with it with a quick questioning look. Jack answers by wordlessly wrapping his arms around him, so Bitty leans against his chest and starts talking, tackling each issue one by one: “Sweetpea, I know it’s a bit difficult to keep in mind, but you and the other version of you are different people, okay? And it’s not fair for this Kent to treat you like you’ve made the same mistakes as the Jack Zimmermann of his world.”

“But what if they _are_ the same mistakes?” Jack whispers. “Kent has a lot of reasons to hate me.”

“Then he needs to get over it,” Bitty says firmly, filing away Jack’s use of present tense as an issue to tackle for another time. “Because you’ve changed. You’ve grown. You’re not the same person. You and our Kent Parson talked your problems through ages ago, and truthfully, I think the other Jack Zimmermann can do the same. He’s certainly being a good friend to Parse, isn’t he?”

Jack just grunts.

Bitty pauses, wondering if he’s noticed it—the other Jack’s rather badly hidden attraction to their Parse, that is. He clears his throat and saves that thought for later, too. “And as for me—well. I know me, and I know how I get about people I care for. I’m not exactly the most impartial of people.”

“You mean you hold grudges like nobody else?” Jack says dryly.

“Oh, hush you,” Bitty says, kissing his cheek. “Though—you’re right that that _is_ what I mean. You’ve got about as many reasons to hate Parse as he’s got to hate you, and I didn’t want to give Parse a chance to share his side of the story for a long, long time because of the way he hurt you. In their world, Eric’s probably only heard _his_ side—only seen the way Zimmermann’s hurt his Kent. So, he’s reacting the way I did before you and Parse started being friends again, you understand? He’s being protective, baby, same as I am for you.”

Jack nods, obviously processing it.

Bitty takes a deep breath. “He’s just looking out for the person he loves,” he repeats carefully, “the way I do for you.” He’s got to be careful about how he words this—has to reassure Jack that the person he loves is _him_. Bitty doesn’t want Jack comparing himself to this alternate Kent and coming up short. Bitty’s quite certain that’d be a disaster for everyone involved. “It’s not exactly wrong, what he’s doing. I get that, baby. But you shouldn’t let it be a judgment on who you are, either. It’s not _wrong_ , but it’s not fair to you, either, see? He doesn’t know you. He’s not me.”

Jack looks down at him, eyes lingering on every one of Bitty’s features. “Yeah,” he says softly, “you’re right. He’s not you.” Jack laughs a little, rueful. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to treat you like you were the same person.”

“Oh, honey, I forgive you. Can’t exactly blame you, can I? I mean, do you have any idea how difficult it’s been to keep from fussing over the alternate you?” Bitty complains.

Jack cracks a smile. “I can guess. You haven’t been doing a very good job at not calling him pet names.”

Bitty groans. “Don’t remind me, baby. You’re just so handsome in every universe—how am I supposed to help myself, huh?” He strokes Jack’s cheekbones. “So we all have some work to do on not conflating everybody and getting our identities all mixed up. Who can blame us? This is a hell of a situation to be stuck in.”

“True,” Jack concedes.

“So be a little kinder on yourself, huh? And—we might as well take the opportunity to learn from this or something. That _is_ what the Stanley Cup wanted, right? Or something close to it, at least,” he corrects when Jack raises a questioning brow. “So why don’t you help this Kent figure out how to be friends with his Jack again?”

“Uh—”

“Because you know, I really don’t buy this other Kent not wanting anything to do with you, _or_ with the other you,” Bitty points out. “I mean, he spent his Cup wish on you, didn’t he?”

“I guess,” Jack concedes begrudgingly, then blurts out, “Parse didn’t, though.”

Now _that_ was a whole other kettle of fish. “Did you want him to?” Bitty asks quietly.

“No! That’s—of course not,” Jack says. He grips Bitty’s hand and sighs. “It’s just—it means he’s really over me now.”

 _Possibly_ , Bitty thinks, but he only squeezes Jack’s hand tight. He’s got to talk to Parse about it first, figure out the shape of what Parse wants before he risks raising Jack’s expectations. “Does that make you upset?”

“No! I mean, I have you—I shouldn’t be upset about it.”

Bitty laces their fingers together more tightly. “Sweetie, I’m not asking you how you _should_ feel. I’m asking how you _do_ feel.”

Jack clenches his jaw for a long moment before deliberately loosening it, inhaling deeply as he does so. “I guess I’m—conflicted. Because—I thought I was all the way over him. And then this other Kent shows up, and I—well, the way he looked at you was so—and I understood exactly how that felt, because who wouldn’t love you, right?” Jack rambles.

Bitty grins, crooked and wry. “Right. I’m very loveable, hon.”

Jack smiles, leaning his forehead down against Bitty’s. “You are,” he says, soft but emphatic. “So I understood Kent also falling for you. And then—well. I got my hopes up.”

“You mean _I_ got your hopes up,” Bitty says.

Jack shakes his head. “Not your fault,” he insists. “But it’s just—I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know I still wanted it until I couldn’t have it any more, you know?”

“But who says you can’t have it?” Bitty presses.

Jack just looks at him, incredulous. “Bittle. Parse wants to fall in love with somebody else.”

Bitty rolls his eyes, not buying that one bit. “Are you sure he—”

Jack barrels ahead, “And I’m halfway certain he’s falling in love with you.”

Bitty closes his mouth, his turn to stare wide-eyed. “Wait, what?”

Jack blushes. “Ah, sorry. Not you—I mean the other you. Eric. I think he’s falling in love with Eric.”

Now _that_ was just plain ridiculous. Sure, Eric was very possessive towards both Kent Parsons, and Parse certainly _was_ rather handsy around him, but that was a reciprocal thing, wasn’t it? Eric would fall into his habits and lean into Parse, and Parse would lean back, but it didn’t _mean_ anything. Parse is a tactile person—Bitty only had to watch a few videos of him horsing around with his team to grasp that he’s the incredibly physically affectionate sort. This didn’t translate into him falling in love with Bitty’s _alternate self_.

“But he can’t be falling for me! He treats me like I’m his kid brother! You just have to watch them for three seconds to see it’s completely platonic!” Bitty bursts out.

Jack raises a skeptical brow. “Now who’s treating whom like they’re the same person.”

Bitty ignores him. “But it’s _other_ _me_. Parse can’t want _other me_. That’s—it’s just—”

“So you don’t like Parse, either?” Jack queries.

“No! I mean, yes! I mean—look, I can concede that he’s a good friend to you, and a decent person in general, and very attractive in a purely physical sense, of course, and, Lord, can that boy play hockey, but—”

Jack is smiling at him. “You like him,” he says, altogether too smug.

“I do not! I like the other Kent! The one who can julienne carrots, and watches my cooking show, and does the dishes, and can tell the difference between a triple lutz and a triple axel—”

Jack huffs a laugh. “So you like Parse,” he repeats, “because Parse does all those things, too.”

Bitty opens and closes his mouth. He doesn’t understand how they went from addressing Jack’s complicated, lingering feelings for Parse to talking about his own very, very nonexistent crush on his boyfriend’s ex. “No,” he eventually says. “Just—no. Jack Zimmermann, I hate to say it, but you are one hundred percent mistaken about this, oh, yes, you are. I don’t have a _crush_ on our Kent Parson. I just want him to come home safely, and maybe for you to be happy with him as a—a—boyfriend on a trial basis, or something—”

“Bits, what are you even saying?” Jack says, laughing.

“But _I’m_ not gunning to be his boyfriend. That’s just—I’m not going to get my hopes up, not again,” Bitty declares. The first time was humiliating enough, especially now that he realizes that Kent wasn’t even in love with _him_ , he was in love with _his_ Eric. He’s not going to make that same mistake again.

Jack abruptly goes serious. “You mean like the time we tried to kiss Kent,” he points out.

“Yes!”

“You don’t want to get your hopes up,” Jack repeats, then adds, “same as me.”

Bitty pauses and registers that last bit. Oh. “I…guess,” he says slowly. “I mean—it’s pretty obvious that I don’t have a chance with him? Not when there’s—not when there’s you.”

Jack pulls him in closer. “It’s the other way around for me,” he admits. “I _know_ I don’t have a chance, because he’s in love with—well, other you.”  

“I really think you’re wrong about that,” Bitty insists.

Jack sighs. “I hope I am, too,” he admits. “It’ll be hell on him to leave that universe otherwise.”

Oh. _Oh_. Bitty sucks in a breath. He hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh, no,” he says, horrified.

“I know,” Jack murmurs.

“He’d be heartbroken,” Bitty says.

“Yeah.”

“It’d be devastating.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, God. But that’s—it won’t happen, though,” Bitty says. “Because—because this Kent will find somebody for him here, and it’ll be fine, and _he’ll_ be fine, and we’ll be worrying for nothing.”

Jack nods.

“He’s not in love with either of us,” Bitty says resolutely, then quickly adds, “or either of our other selves.”

Jack looks at him doubtfully. “If you say so,” he mutters.

“I do,” Bitty says, putting as much confidence as he can into the words. He’ll make them true by sheer force of will if he has to. How else will they get Parse home otherwise?

 

\---

 

They stop the conversation there, even though there’s still so much to talk about. It feels like too much right now, too complicated, to try and address how Jack feels about Parse. How Parse feels about Jack. How _Kent_ feels about his own Jack. How Kent’s Jack feels about _Parse_.

…or how Bitty feels about Parse.

Really, the only one who isn’t the least bit ambiguous about his feelings in this messed-up love hexagon they’ve gotten themselves mired in is Eric, who Bitty’s pretty damn certain is considering ways to keep both Kent Parsons to himself, if only he could manage it.

They’ll sort it out, though. They have to.

 

\---

 

The next day, Jack invites Kent to go running with him again, and Kent, after a short pause, agrees.

It’s a start.

 

\---

 

The thing is, even if the relationship between Jack and _this_ Kent is strained, the relationship between Parse and the other Jack Zimmermann is…decidedly not.

“Alright, no, I’m sorry, enough is enough,” Eric says one night, early on in the week, while they’re all having dinner. “I’m going to pull a Carrie and establish naming conventions. You—” He points at the Jack who’s sitting next to Bitty. “You’re Jack. Just Jack. Is everybody clear on that?”

“Uh, sure, babe,” Kent says immediately, agreeing with him the way he always does.

Jack shrugs. “I’m fine with that.”

“Good,” Eric says decisively. “So you—you’re Zimmermann,” he says, pointing at the Jack Zimmermann sitting in his own living room.

“That’s fine,” Zimmermann says placidly.

Parse grins. “I dunno, we could always go with Zimboni,” he says cheekily.

Zimmermann narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t you dare. I get enough of that from Tater.”

“Aw, what, you don’t like your nickname?” Parse says, pouting.

Zimmermann reaches over and flicks him on the forehead. “Just call me Zimmermann, Parse,” he says, then pauses. “Or Zimms, if you want.”

On Bitty’s side of the mirror, both Kent and Jack freeze.

 _Oh, Lord_ , Bitty thinks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Sure, sure,” Parse says easily, oblivious. “Not like I haven’t been doing that all the time anyway.”

“Well, if you’re going to do that, then just make sure that you only call _him_ that,” Eric interrupts. “It’s already driving me nuts when one of us slips up and I have no clue who we’re talking about, or talking to, for that matter.”

“Alright,” Parse agrees easily. “Jack will be Jack, and Zimms will be Zimms.”

“I’ll stick with Zimmermann,” Kent says. He and Zimmermann lock eyes across the mirror before Kent looks away.

Jack, personally, looks like he wants to protest his nickname being given away, but he keeps quiet, stabs his fork through the string beans instead, and grunts his agreement.   

Bitty winces, but there’s nothing to be done, so they move on to other topics.

 

\---

 

It’s not just that, though. Bitty knows what Jack Zimmermann looks like when he’s in love, and the Zimmermann through the mirror?

Lord, is that boy ever in love.  

It’s easy to see in the way he crowds into Parse’s space. The way he lights up in the morning when Parse hands him a cup of coffee, already cooled to room temperature, taken black with a spoonful of sugar. The way he’s always turned to listen to Parse, the way he’s always nudging him with an elbow, or pulling him in by the wrist, or draping an arm over his shoulders, a thousand easy touches that ought to be platonic, but somehow aren’t.

Honestly, Bitty thought _his_ Jack and Parse were physically affectionate, but that’s nothing on the level of Parse and Zimmermann.

And the thing is…Parse is obviously used to it. It’s instinctive for him to let Zimmermann that close, to tolerate his touch. He doesn’t _initiate_ it, no, but when Zimmermann goes and stands next to him at the counter for breakfast, their shoulders brushing, Parse doesn’t move away.

At least at first. A minute, two minutes into the contact, there’s always a moment where Parse will blink and realize what’s happening. He’ll glance over at Eric, or Kent, or even Bitty, and then smile up at Zimmermann and distract him with something before moving a step away.

Bitty sees the movement and realizes that it’s familiar. That Parse has been doing that for as long as he’s been friends with Jack. That the distance they keep between them is a measured and deliberate thing, one that’s mutually maintained. Jack doesn’t step into Parse’s space, and Parse doesn’t step into Jack’s. It’s not until now, now that Bitty sees what they must have been like as boys, sees the pattern their bodies fall into without barely a conscious thought, that he sees what it is the two of them gave up.

“Dude,” Parse says one morning when Zimmermann follows him, even after he’s already moved away, settling by him so that their sides are touching again. Parse tilts his head up, smiling casually, and Bitty realizes how easy it would be for Zimmermann to close the distance between them and lean down to kiss him. The thought makes him ache, but it’s not jealousy he feels.

Or it is, but not the type he’d have suspected. _Back off_ , he finds himself wanting to tell Zimmermann, not Parse. _That one’s **ours**_.

 _Oh, my God,_ he thinks right after, horrified, _what is **wrong** with you?_

He barely has time to berate himself for the overly possessive thought before Parse goes and tells Zimmermann himself: “Give me some space, man,” Parse says, deliberately amused, his smile meant to take any sting out of his words. “You’re kinda crowding me.”

Zimmermann blinks, but takes the step back. “Sorry,” he says, sheepishly.

“Nah, man, don’t be. I know how much of an octopus you are. Right, Bitty?” Parse asks.

Zimmermann turns to look at Bitty, surprised.

 _I know what you’re doing_ , Bitty thinks loudly at Parse. He’s reminding Zimmermann that Parse thinks of Jack as taken, that he considers them nothing more than friends. Which is good, of course. They _are_ friends. There’s no reason to project Bitty’s own recently realized desires onto Parse.

Bitty clears his throat. “Of course, Parse,” he says, patting Jack’s hip with the hand he has wrapped around his side. “Never met anyone more cuddly.”

Parse snickers while Eric snorts. “Good Lord, you really don’t know Kenny, then,” Eric replies, looking pointedly at his own boyfriend.

“Hey!” Kent protests. “I’m not that bad.”

“Kenny, you liar,” Jack says from next to Bitty, and now it’s Eric’s turn to give him a look—though, Bitty soon realizes, it’s a look that’s more thoughtful than hostile.

“Right,” Eric murmurs. “You’d know.”

Jack freezes. “Ah. Sorry?” he says, uncertain, his gaze darting between Eric, Kent, and Zimmermann.

Eric shakes his head, which frankly surprises the hell out of Bitty. “No, don’t be. Anybody who’s been on a hockey team with Kenny knows how clingy he can be,” Eric says, smoothly glossing over the elephant in the room. “Though I guess _you_ don’t have room to talk, either?”

“Nope,” Parse says cheerfully.

“Eh, that’s only with people I’m close to, though,” Jack protests. “ _You_ get physically friendly with anyone.”

“And this is a bad thing?” Parse says, rolling his eyes.

“No, just that I refuse to be lumped in the same category as you. _I_ don’t snuggle with poor unsuspecting strangers,” Jack retorts.

“Hey! Hey, that was one time, and it was _totally_ Zezzie’s fault for leaving me on the bus by myself, oh, my God,” Parse says, and beside him, Zimmermann chuckles.

“Some of it was definitely you, though. That poor accountant,” Zimmermann says.

Parse just gives him a look. “Well, at least my clinginess prepared you for Shitty,” he points out.

“Lord, that’s true,” Bitty says, laughing despite himself, before the expression on Zimmermann’s face gives him pause. “Sweetheart?” he says automatically, concerned.

Beside him, Jack coughs.

“Oh!” Bitty says, realizing his mistake. “I meant Zimmermann. Zimmermann, you alright there?”

“No, I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just—I forgot that you both know Shitty pretty well, huh?”

“Ah, yeah,” Parse says in understanding. “Must be weird, huh?”

Zimmermann nods. “Yeah. I mean—I’m dating your boyfriend?” He shoots a glance at Bitty. “No offense, Bitty, but it’s…pretty strange.”

Parse straightens abruptly, smacking Zimmermann on the arm. “Dude, no, I totally get you!” he says, his face animated. “I mean, it’s surreal, right? Like, Eric knows fucking everybody on the Aces, it’s so fucking weird.”

“And this is weird how?” Eric says, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s not weird to you, but it’s weird to me? Like, you know all these things about me and my life, and I don’t know a thing about you,” Parse says. “It’s like—in this universe, a random acquaintance is the love of my life.”

Bitty frowns slightly, not sure that he agrees entirely with being designated a ‘random acquaintance’—they were friends, weren’t they? Or _friendly_ , at the very least. He opens his mouth to correct him, but Zimmermann replies first.

“Yes,” Zimmermann says, eager, “exactly.”

Bitty feels his stomach drop. “Oh,” he and Eric say simultaneously, the two of them small-voiced in the exact same way, even if Bitty’s staring at Zimmermann and Eric’s staring at Parse.

For once, they’re in complete agreement.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, sugar,” Eric says, biting his lip.

“No, no, you’re fine,” Parse says automatically, and Eric at least looks somewhat appeased by his quick response.    

Bitty looks at Zimmermann. “I don’t mean to do that, either,” he says. He knows how much Jack values his privacy. He’d never meant to be invasive, or rude, or—

“You’re fine,” Zimmermann echoes, “I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. It’s just—”

“Weird,” Parse and Kent say simultaneously.

Kent shrugs when everyone looks at him. “I get it, too. In this universe, the love of my life thinks I’m a random acquaintance.”    

 _Oh_ , Bitty thinks, feeling a belated rush of guilt for how he’d first reacted to finding out Kent’s identity. Jack was right—it really must’ve hurt him. For goodness’ sake, Bitty’s still in the same universe as Jack, and it still hurts a little when Zimmermann regards him with caution and suspicion.

Eric pointedly clears his throat. “Alright, how about we agree this is strange all-around and just…accept the weirdness, huh?”

“That’s fine with me,” Parse says, nudging Zimmermann’s side with his elbow. “Right, Zimms?”

Zimmermann smiles back at him, the small, fond smile that Jack reserves for Bitty. “Right, Parse,” he answers.

Bitty notices that he’s back in Parse’s space again. This time, Parse doesn’t move away.

 

\---

 

Most evenings, before they regroup with their counterparts in the other universe, Kent spends outside the house, meeting up with people he’s met on Tinder, or going to bars and a surprising variety of classes and activities.

“Salsa dancing?” Bitty asks, nonplussed.

Kent shrugs. “Well, why not? Swoops met Mags when he accidentally crashed a knitting class at the community center. You can’t meet interesting people unless you go to interesting places.” He looks at Bitty and Jack. “You guys want to come with?” he asks.

They exchange a glance, Jack shrugging. “Sure,” Bitty says, “why not?”

So they accompany Kent to salsa dancing, and rock climbing, and book clubs, and pottery classes, and Bitty watches as Kent pulls a smile on and effortlessly charms everyone they meet. He’s funny, and charismatic, and any room they walk into, he’s bound to walk out of with half the inhabitants madly in love with him.

“Good Lord,” Bitty murmurs to Jack. “Is he always like this?”

Jack chuckles, fond. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes tracking Kent across the room. “He is.”

Bitty fiddles with his cuffs and pretends he’s not doing the same thing.

 

\---

 

Whatever Kent’s looking for, he doesn’t find. He always goes home with them.

“Not the one,” he says when Bitty asks.

“Well, what are you looking for? What’s ‘the one’ supposed to have?” Bitty asks, genuinely curious.

Kent looks back at him, serious. “Somebody who can see when I’m faking it,” he answers. “You knew. You knew when I wasn’t being myself.”

Bitty swallows, and looks away.

 

\---

 

“Is there a reason why you only hit on girls?” Jack asks one day.

Kent freezes. “Uh. Well. It’s not safe?” he says, confused.

Bitty tilts his head to the side. “But you’re out,” he says.

Kent’s eyes widen. “Right,” he says, and then he grins, ecstatic. “ _Right_.”

 

\---

 

That night, Kent goes out in tights, cut-off jean shorts, and a crop top, mascara on his lashes and glitter on his eyelids. His lips are painted a deep rose-red.

“See you later!” he says as he heads out the door, waving a cheerful goodbye at the Falcs assembled for weekly poker night.

“Was that…was that Kent Parson?” Poots asks after he’s gone, slightly dazed.

“Um. Yes,” Bitty answers, feeling a little dazed himself.

Jack is still staring at the door, before he shakes his head and states, “Let’s get the game started.”

“But I’ve never seen him dressed like that before,” Snowy says, confused.

Bitty glares at him. “And is there a problem with that?”

“No! Just—hm,” Snowy says, frowning. “You think I should introduce him to a friend of mine? He’s into the, uh, the—the—”

“The twink look?” Thirdy says dryly.

“Uh. Yeah?” Snowy says, sounding uncertain. “Like, his last boyfriend had exactly that sort of style.”

“Mm! Parser look very good, no?” Tater says, elbowing Bitty.

“Yes,” Bitty says, and then he stands up and asks everyone if they’d like refreshments, escaping into the kitchen, Jack’s gaze heavy on his back.

 

\---

 

So Kent Parson is beautiful. So what? Bitty knew that. Bitty’s _always_ known that.

Why the hell does it feel so different now? Like a sudden drop in his stomach, a swooping in his chest to look at Kent Parson and think, _You’re lovely._

(He knows the answer. He just doesn’t want to admit it.)

 

\---

 

Kent doesn’t find what he’s looking for that night, either. Bitty gives a silent sigh of relief before catching himself.

 _What the hell?_ he tells himself sternly. _You **want** him to fall in love with someone else._

(Except…maybe there’s a part of him that doesn’t.)

 

\---

 

The very next evening, Bitty finds out that the other Jack Zimmermann has apparently been subsisting on nothing microwaveable meals. He’s not surprised, but he _is_ horrified.

Parse, as it turns out, isn’t much better.

“Oh, my God, Bitty, don’t lump me in with Zimmermann. At least I can fucking cook for myself,” Parse says, rolling his eyes.

“But _do_ you?” Bitty presses.

“…no.” Parse looks shiftily away.

“Honey,” Bitty says, exasperated, “honey, why? Especially when you can cook as well as you do.”

Parse looks around for a second, as if Bitty could be addressing anybody but him. He clears his throat after a moment. “I mean—I guess I could, but take-out’s easier. We eat take-out a lot, don’t we?” he says to Eric.

Eric gestures broadly at his kitchen, Zimmermann beside him as Eric demonstrates the joys of slow-cooking. “We also cook a lot, sugar,” Eric says dryly, exchanging a knowing look with Bitty.

 _These boys_ , they agree silently.

“You know what, let me just—we’ll just get you some things, okay? Just a few appliances and maybe some supplies,” Bitty says, already compiling a list in his head.

“Uh, you really don’t have to—”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Parson,” Bitty says. “We’re getting you set, and that’s that.”

Parse opens his mouth, then closes it. “Fine,” he mumbles. “You win.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I knew you’d see things my way,” Bitty says primly, then blinks hard as Parse reddens.

 _Must be a trick of the light_ , he tells himself firmly.

 

\---

 

This is how Bitty ends up taking Kent with him to the set of his show, just to raid a few things from their more-than-ample pantries.

“You know,” Kent says, perusing the shelves of flour, “he doesn’t do that badly for himself.”

“And how would you know that, Mr. Parson?” Bitty shoots him a look that he just barely manages to keep from being flirty.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Bittle_ , he reminds himself exasperatedly. _The two of you are here for kitchenware, for God’s sake._

Kent shrugs. “Well, he’s got a couple of your recipes saved on his phone—you know, your Food in Five segments? I wasn’t kidding when I said I knew them—he seems pretty fond of the cookie in the cup one, though I think he uses your mac and cheese thing pretty often, too.”

Bitty stares at him, surprised.

“What?” Kent asks.

“Nothing. I just—” He shakes his head. Parse, using _his_ recipes? Watching _his_ show? “I thought he only tuned in if hockey was involved.”

Kent shoots him an amused look. “Pretty sure we’re interested in things beyond the game, too. We can’t all be French-Canadian hockey robots, you know.”       

Bitty doesn’t answer, too distracted by the thought that one of the things that catches Parse’s interest is apparently Bitty—or Bitty’s show, at the very least. After all, it _was_ very useful, especially for athletes of all stripes. That was Bitty’s entire _niche_ , when it came down to it. It’s not surprising that Parse makes use of it, especially when they know each other and they’re pretty friendly. Why wouldn’t he watch the show? Bitty’s really reading too much into it, honestly.

Bitty heads over to the toaster ovens and does his best to put Kent Parson’s interests from his mind.

 

\---

 

They end up having to shoot a little segment before they go, after one of the assistant producers catches sight of Kent wandering through the sets.

“Come on, it won’t even take a whole hour,” Marina wheedles. “You know you want to.”

Bitty ignores her, addressing Kent: “You don’t have to indulge her, you know. She just has a frenemy on ESPN that she’s trying to one-up—whoever gets a hockey player from every team in the NHL on their show first wins.”

“I’m three ahead,” Marina tells Kent, winking. “It’ll be four if you let me use your beautiful, beautiful face to sell spatulas. Craig will be so pissed, it’s gonna be great.”

Kent laughs, says why not. It doesn’t take long at all—Kent’s a natural in front of the cameras, easily accustomed to being in the spotlight, and he charms everyone on set in a matter of minutes. They end up making waffles, Kent knowing the Phelps’ recipe like the back of his hand. He even cuts the strawberries into hearts, just the way Moo Maw used to do for Bitty on Sunday mornings.      

“Here you go, Bits,” he says, sprinkling cinnamon sugar over the whole thing with a flourish before pushing the plate towards Bitty.

“Well?” he asks after Bitty takes a bite. “Does it pass muster?”

“It’ll do,” Bitty says pasting a smile on even though it feels like a vise is squeezing his heart.

 

\---

 

After they wrap up, Brian, Bitty’s favorite production assistant, comes up to tug on Eric’s sleeve.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks, red-cheeked and shy.

“Sure, honey, what is it?” Bitty says. He’s got a real soft spot for Brian, he’ll admit—he reminds him a little of himself.

“Uh.” Brian looks over to where Kent’s joking around with one of the grips. “Is he—is he single?”

Bitty pauses. “Yes,” he says, carefully neutral, quashing the urge to reply in the negative.

“Oh! That’s—um, that’s nice. Or! Not nice, just—it’s a relief, is what I mean? I mean—do you think—how rude would it be if I gave him my number?” Brian blurts out.

Bitty swallows, then pastes on a smile. “Why, I don’t think it’d be rude at all. Why don’t you go try your luck?” he says.

Brian beams at him, grateful, before wandering over to Kent.

Bitty turns his back on the two of them.   

 

\---

 

Brian Frankowski becomes the first person to take Kent out on a second date. Coincidentally, he also becomes Bitty’s second favorite production assistant right afterwards.

 

\---

 

The night Kent gets back from date three, he comes through the door in a panic.

“Oh, my God,” he says, running his hands through his hair, his eyes wild. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, I have to talk to Eric—”

“Kent, what happened?” Jack says, alarmed.

“I just—oh, my God, I think I almost cheated on him?” Kent says, pacing back and forth.

Bitty nearly chokes. “You _what?”_

“I don’t know! I almost kissed Brian? We haven’t talked about it yet, though, like, fuck, where are the boundaries? Why the hell didn’t I ask about boundaries, oh, my God, Eric’s going to be so pissed.” Kent presses the heels of his hands to his closed eyes.

Bitty stares at him. “You mean…you almost kissed someone on a third date?”

“Yes! Oh, my God, I’m such a douche!” Kent collapses on the couch and curls in on himself.

Bitty looks at Jack, thoroughly confused. “Honey…I think you can be forgiven for that,” he tries to say.

“But I didn’t ask!” Kent says, and goodness, is he—he’s _teary-eyed_.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” Bitty says, gesturing at Jack to grab the tissue box. He scoots over to Kent on the couch, his hand hovering over his arm before he throws awkwardness to the wind and pulls him in to pat his back comfortingly. Kent sways forward and buries his face against his shoulder.

“Do you think he’s going to hate me?” he asks in a small voice.

“Kent, no,” Bitty repeats. “It wasn’t even a kiss, was it?”

“No—it was—I panicked and? I sort of kissed his forehead instead,” Kent mumbles.

Bitty looks over at Jack, confused. “Well, that’s…not bad at all, honey. I mean, we’re trying to get other-you a boyfriend, aren’t we?”

“But it’s our thing,” Kent argues. “I don’t want to do that with anybody but—it’s our thing.”

Bitty bites his lip, at a loss. “Well, why don’t we try and contact them, just in case?”

“Eric’s still at practice,” is the automatic reply.

“We could have Parse call him, maybe?” Bitty offers.

Kent shakes his head. “No. I’ll just—I can wait. It’s fine. I’m sorry for freaking out, this must seem super fucking dumb right now.”

“It’s not, Kent,” Jack says from his other side. “You’re—you just really want to make sure you’re communicating. That’s important in a relationship, of course it’s okay to worry.”

Kent shudders and squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he says, laughing a little bitterly. “I know. Talk things through. Be honest and open and all that shit. Don’t shut people out. Don’t hide things from them.”

Jack’s face freezes, guilt written all over him, and Bitty—Bitty honestly doesn’t know what to say to that. Is he talking about the time Jack stopped talking to him? Is he referring to the kiss-that-will-not-be-mentioned? It could be either or both, at this point. “Well,” Eric tries, dancing around all the issues they’ve been avoiding, “I’m sure Eric will understand.”

“Will he, though?” Kent mutters, and Eric is dead certain that they’re not talking about Brian anymore.

 _Oh, hell_ , he thinks, dismayed. _We really need to get this worked out, fast._

 

\---       

 

Kent huddles miserably on the couch and lets Bitty comfort him. If he closes his eyes, he can pretty much pretend that it’s Eric who’s with him. Eric who still loves him, and will forgive him, and—

 _It’s going to be okay_ , he tells himself sternly. _Eric isn’t the type to overreact to something like this. You’re being stupid._

He hadn’t even really been thinking when the almost-kiss happened—he’d spent most of the date on autopilot, noting the restaurant address and speculating idly if Eric would enjoy it. It seemed right up his alley, as evidenced by the fact that Brian had shyly shared that Bitty recommended it to him.

Brian was—nice. Sweet, a little shy, but he had a sharp wit to him that Kent appreciated, though they were still in the very beginning stages and he hadn’t had much of a chance to see it yet. Kent was hopeful, though—Brian reminded him a little of Eric, way back when they first met, and why break with type, right?

Things would be great if Parse liked him, too, though honestly the whole thing also depended on whether or not Kent had run him off with his mixed-as-hell signals. Kent was experienced enough at dating to know that a forehead kiss isn’t exactly what Brian was angling for when he’d smiled down at him in the doorway to his apartment. Though at least he’d looked charmed by Kent’s smooth-talking about ‘waiting until they got to know each other a little better.’

“Don’t want to rush things, you know? The best things are worth waiting for,” he’d said.

Brian had laughed, enamored. “Bitty says that all the time on set,” he shared. “Usually in regards to baking times, but I always thought it applied well to other things, too.”

Kent had frozen for a long second, but managed to pull himself together long enough to say his goodnights and high-tail it back to Jack and Bitty’s apartment before having a complete and utter meltdown.   

He really, really fucking wants to go home already.

He closes his eyes and decides to just take Bitty’s advice and rest.

When he opens them again, the lights are dimmed and Bitty’s moved his head onto his lap, stroking his hair gently.

Eric is in the mirror, staring at him worriedly.

Kent sits bolt upright. “Baby,” he says, his voice breaking.

“Sugar?” Eric says. “Bitty tells me you have something to say?”

“Um. Yeah,” Kent croaks. “I, uh—I almost kissed somebody else today.”

“Uh-huh,” Eric says, his brow still furrowed. “And then?”

Kent blinks. “Um. That was—I almost kissed somebody else,” he repeats, as if Eric had misunderstood him the first time.

“And did you—did they try anything else?” Eric asks, wringing his hands.

“No! Oh, my God, no, it was nothing like that, it was literally a goodnight kiss, except I didn’t kiss him on the lips. Just—just his forehead.”

Eric stares at him. “Oh,” he says. “And that was—that was it? You didn’t make out with him or anything?”

Kent feels Bitty’s thigh alongside his like a brand. He shakes his head, mute.

Eric sighs. “Oh, thank God. I thought it was something serious,” he murmurs, exchanging a glance with Parse.

Kent’s mouth drops open. “It was serious! Eric, I—I almost cheated on you!”

Eric tilts his head to the side, looking adorably confused. “Baby,” he says slowly, “when you were going out on dates, what did you think I thought you were going to be doing, exactly?”

“Not kissing people!” Kent yells. “I mean! We never talked about it, God, how can I even think about other people when we’re engaged?”

“Sugar, that’s so sweet of you, but if you making out with people is necessary to get Parse a significant other, then by all means do so,” Eric states calmly.

“Wait, what?” Kent says, the wind taken out of his sails.

“Kenny, I’m willing to resort to violence to get you home, a few kisses aren’t anything,” Eric says, waving a hand dismissively. He pauses. “I mean. Well. So long as they _stay_ kisses, you hear?”

Kent feels the tension leave his shoulders. “See? See? This is what I was talking about!” he says. “We didn’t talk about it first! Of course I was going to freak the fuck out, oh, my God!”

Eric rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay, fine, so let’s lay out the ground rules, sugar. Holding hands is fine, kissing is fine, making out is fine—” He pauses, his nose scrunching up the way it does when he’s concentrating. “I think I’m okay with petting, as long as it stays above the waist. And, um. No taking clothes off? Is that—are you okay with that?” he asks, turning to Parse.

Parse just looks back at him, mystified. “Dude, he’s _your_ boyfriend—”

“Fiancé,” Eric corrects. Kent practically melts at the automatic way he asserts it.

“—right.” Parse clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m not going to tell you what you guys are okay with.”

“But he’s your stand-in. Are you—I feel like you should have a say,” Eric insists.

“Um, I guess be nice about it? Make sure they have a good time on their dates?” Parse shrugs.

Kent looks at him, exasperated. “Of course I do that,” he says. “What the hell kind of guy do you take me for?”

“I don’t know, man, I’m just saying my piece!” Parse protests. “Look, which person did you even go out with tonight?”

“Brian,” Kent says impatiently.

“Oh, cool,” Parse says, nodding. “He’s the, uh, the assistant manager for Bitty’s show?”

“Production assistant,” Bitty corrects, clearing his throat.

Eric tilts his head. “You’re…seeing a guy?” he says slowly, and, oh, right. Eric hadn’t been there for the debriefing on Brian, having gone out with Inez and the rest of their group instead.

Kent blinks. “Is that not okay?” he asks, worried. Eric hadn’t minded Kent dating women, but did he have a problem with other men?

“No, honey, I just—” Eric laughs a little. “Guess I forgot that you were out of the closet over there.” He elbows Parse gently. “You enjoying yourself, then?”

“Um, yeah, I suppose,” Parse says, scratching the bridge of his nose. “It’s mostly been okay? Like, not anything more terrible than I expected. Honestly, sometimes I think the people who have it worse are—”

He cuts himself off.

Kent winces, looking down at his feet for a moment, and bites at his bottom lip. “You’re talking about Jack and Bitty,” he says eventually.

Bitty sucks in a startled breath, and Parse glances guiltily at him and Jack. “That’s not—I mean, I really wouldn’t say that it’s _that_ bad,” he hedges.

“I would,” Kent says quietly.

Eric frowns. “Kenny?”

“Baby,” he says, in that same soft tone, “I’m out of the closet here. And—and so are you.”

“Right,” Eric says, his eyes flicking towards Bitty. He looks quizzical, but not that curious or concerned, and Kent can tell that he hasn’t really thought the implications of this difference through.

“You’re the first man to be publicly in a relationship with an NHL player,” Kent says. “And it’s—” He stops, takes a breath. “Baby, it’s bad,” Kent says honestly. “It’s—it’s bad.”

In the mirror, Eric goes still, his eyes widening. “Oh,” he says.

Beside Kent, Bitty’s body stiffens and Jack’s jaw clenches. “It’s not _that_ bad,” Bitty tries to say.

“It’s bad,” Kent insists, ignoring him and leaning forward so he can look Eric straight in the face. “They—they say horrible things, baby, everything you can think of, the worst fucking things, and—” His voice cracks, but he ignores it and keeps going. “—I don’t want that for you, Eric. It’s—Jack doesn’t even have that much of a social media presence, but you know it’s different for me. I’ve been the face of the franchise ever since I got to Vegas, they plaster me all over the fucking place, and with the interviews, and the press, and—”

“Baby,” Eric says.

“—I haven’t even started on _your_ career—like, fuck, baby, you’re the fucking U.S. champ. You know all the bullshit homophobic assholes are going to be gunning for you, and you know the ISU judges are going to be looking at you differently if they _know_ that you’re gay—”

“Kenny—”

“I just—it’s bad, baby, it’s going to be so bad for you. I’m going to be—”

“You stop right there, Kent Parson,” Eric interrupts fiercely, and, oh, God, his eyes are wet. Kent’s making him cry, what the hell is wrong with him, he’s—he’s making Eric _cry_.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice higher-pitched than he normally lets it get. He clears his throat again. “Sorry,” he says again, lower that time.

“Oh, baby,” Eric says, swiping a hand over his eyes quickly. “I don’t—I’m not _mad_ at you, I’m—no, actually, I _am_ a little mad at you, it’s true, but it’s because you _promised_ you wouldn’t do this to me again.” He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Sugar, didn’t we say we wouldn’t have any more conversations where I would need to kiss you to shut you up if I literally, _physically_ cannot kiss you to shut you up?”

“But, Eric—”

“No,” Eric says firmly. “No. You do not get to start this talk when you’re not even in the right universe. I know you, and you’re going to say all these—these stupid things about how you think it’ll be too hard, or it won’t be worth it, or _you_ won’t be worth it—”

“But—”

“No!” Eric shouts. “No, you don’t get to sit there and tell me—” He takes a deep breath and sits back against the couch, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. Beside him, Kent’s counterpart is watching him out of the corner of his eye, his focus moving back and forth between Eric and Kent himself, and taking in Jack and Bitty next to him, too, reading the room with a watchful eye.

“Is it that bad?” Eric asks Bitty, looking him straight in the eye.

Bitty hesitates. “It’s not so—”

“Don’t lie,” Kent says, pleading.

Bitty frowns. “I’m not—”

“You’re wringing your hands,” Kent points out. He knows Eric’s tells, sees them clear as day in Bitty, even if all that does is make all of them uncomfortable.

Bitty stops and pulls his hands apart. “Oh,” he says, looking down. “But I—” He bites down on his lip. “I’m not lying, though, I’m just—nervous? If that makes sense? This seems—it seems really heavy, and I don’t want to give you the wrong impression or anything, but I also don’t want to understate how difficult things can be, and—oh, God, I’m rambling.” He runs an anxious hand through his hair, and beside him, Jack quietly takes hold of the other one.

“Bits,” Jack asks, so, so gentle, more gentle than he ever was for Kent, and Kent’s glad, _glad_ that Bitty’s given what he needs, what he deserves, that Bitty has a Jack that’s capable of all of this, of being everything that Kent wanted and dreamed of. He’s glad, fiercely so, even as envy claws through his gut.

“How bad?” Jack asks, and Kent knows that Bitty will answer.

Bitty squeezes his eyes shut. “Some days are worse than others,” he admits.

“Bits,” Jack repeats, a wealth of meaning in one name, agony and anger and protectiveness all in one.

“I tell you,” Bitty says. “Honey, I let you know when it gets to be too much, you know that.” He looks at Eric. “It’s worth it—not hiding it, I mean. It’s—it’s worth every second of it, I promise.”

“I know,” Eric replies, looking straight at Kent. His eyes flicker to Bitty and he says, “Thank you for telling me that.” Then he turns his gaze back to Kent and repeats, “But I knew it already.”

“Eric—”

Eric holds up a hand. “Kent Parson,” he says, “if the next words out of your mouth are ‘but I’m not Jack Zimmermann,’ then you’ll be on the couch for a week, and I will be keeping the cats.”

Kent barks out a shaky laugh at that.

“Dude, I’d listen to him,” Parse says, and Kent has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes.

“I _am_ listening to him,” he protests.

His other self raises a single blond brow, and holy fuck, is that what he really looks like? No wonder people want to punch the fuck out of him so often, he looks like a little shit. “I don’t know, man, it sounds like you’re trying to talk yourself out of a pretty great deal. I mean, if Eric’s made up his mind to have you, then I’d just shut up and nod, yeah?”

Eric looks at him fondly and pats his hand. “Thanks, honey.” Then he slants his brown-eyed gaze back towards Kent. “I chose you, Kenny, okay? Don’t you back out on me just because some bigots can’t keep their mouths shut. You’re mine, and I won’t give you up for anything.”

“Okay,” Kent says, his heart impossibly full. “Okay.”

 

\---

 

Eric fixes himself and Parse an early dinner, Zimms being out on the town with Camilla for the rest of the evening. Eric also negotiates with Bitty to get Kent a cherry pie with some homemade vanilla ice cream.

Kent fiddles with the hanging utensils. “Uh, you really don’t have to—”

“Baby, just eat,” Eric admonishes at the same time Bitty insists, “It’s no trouble!”

Jack slides him a plate and a jar of salted caramel glaze, and that’s that.

“So, what’s this Brian like?” Eric asks when they’re all sitting down and eating. “Is he nice?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Real sweet. He’s a people person, very friendly—oh, like, at the restaurant, he was making small talk with the waitress, and it turns out he knows her professor? He told her to apply for an internship with his company, which I thought was nice.”

Parse makes a noncommittal noise, which was—well. Honestly, he’d been pretty lukewarm about _everybody_ Kent had found for him, but Kent really likes Brian. Parse can at least give the guy a chance.

“What’s he look like?” Parse asks bluntly. “Is he hot?”

“Parse!” Bitty scolds.

“What? I keep asking for pics and he won’t show me any. How the fuck am I supposed to know if I want to date the guy or not?” Parse complains.

“Because of his personality? Because he’s a genuinely sweet boy?” Bitty prompts, rolling his eyes. “God, you are so shallow.”

Parse grins at him. “Right. Because you totally noticed Jack for his personality, and not, say, his ass—”

“Parse!”

“—ets. His physical assets, God, Bits, what the hell did you think I was going to say?” Parse chirps, grinning unrepentantly.  

“You’re a terrible person,” Bitty says, deadpan.

“Takes one to know one,” Parse says.

“Oh, for—that is _not_ true! There are terrible people everywhere! All it takes is literally walking out the door to meet one sometimes!”

Bitty and Parse continue to banter, taking jabs at each other that would’ve made Kent wince once upon a time, but one thing he’s learned the past week and a half or so is that the two of them are well-versed in their limits, familiar at what’s too far and what’s acceptable.

It’s different from his relationship with Eric, obviously, but it’s…not bad. Jack watches the two of them, quietly content, and Kent fiddles with his fork and thinks again, _Maybe_.

“Anyway,” Bitty says, “Brian is a wonderful man, and I won’t hear a bad word said against him.” He points a spoon threateningly at Parse.

“Okay, okay,” Parse says, waving a hand dismissively. “Seriously, though, bro, what makes you like him so much? _Is_ he just that hot?”

Kent laughs a little. “I guess? He’s taller than me. And, uh, he’s got glasses, and a really nice smile. His style’s pretty prep, but he’s got nice arms. And his hair’s all black and curly and adorable.”

Parse makes a considering noise. “Okay. So he’s nice?”

“Mmhm. Smart and funny, too.”

“That’s good,” Eric says softly, and Kent looks at him, wide-eyed.

“Not as funny as you, babe,” he rushes to assure him. “And not as sweet, and not as kind, and not as—”

“Kenny,” Eric says, laughing, “Kenny, that’s not what I meant at all. I _want_ somebody good for Parse, you hear? It’s okay if he’s as nice as I am. I’m not gonna get jealous, I promise.”

“Not possible,” Kent says, stubborn. “’Sides, I only started seeing him because he reminds me of you.”

“Oh, my God,” Eric and Bitty say. Eric sounds delighted. Bitty sounds…kind of embarrassed, actually. Which. Well, yeah, that’s a little awkward, but Parse deserves to have somebody love him the way Eric loves Kent.

“Baby,” Eric says, “that’s so—I don’t even know what to say.”

“You’re such a dork,” Parse pronounces yet again, but he hasn’t demanded that Kent course-correct, so he’s going to assume he’s fine with it. Which makes sense, because Eric is awesome, so there.

Parse sighs. “So, no problems so far?”

“Nope,” Kent says, then hesitates. “Though—he _is_ a little on the young side.”

Bitty gives him a look, affronted. “We’re the same age!”

“He’s twenty-three,” Kent corrects. “So it’s a six-year age difference.”

Parse grimaces. “Christ, that is a bit young. Good thing you stuck with forehead kisses, then.”

“Oh, my God, not you, too!” Eric bursts out. “Our age difference is _not_ unreasonable, Parse!” He shoots a glance at Bitty and Jack. “Back me up here,” he demands.

Jack shrugs. “Six years isn’t that bad,” he states reasonably, which he would.

Bitty just gives an exasperated sigh. “Look, Parse has been calling me a kid for as long as I’ve known him. It’s pretty much a lost cause.”

“A _kid?_ Excuse me, Kent Virgil Parson, I am a _grown man_.” Eric swats Parse’s arm, incensed. “Good Lord, you’re as terrible as Kenny.”

Kent smiles crookedly. “Just because I refused to date a teenager—”

“I was a legal adult!”

“Like I said, a teenager.” Kent gestures broadly. “Look, I’d have murdered anybody my age who made moves on Carrie when she was that young. I don’t care if it’s legal, it’s still skeevy.”

Eric opens his mouth to protest, but Parse elbows him. “C’mon, man, are you saying you’d date a nineteen-year-old right the fuck now?”

Eric frowns. “Well. Um. You know, I’d—look, I was a very _mature_ nineteen-year-old, okay?”

Kent, Parse, and Jack burst into laughter. Bitty and Eric shoot the three of them unamused looks.

“Baby,” Kent says, fond, “just be glad I didn’t stick with my original plan to wait until you were twenty-one.”

“You _what?_ You were going to wait until I was _twenty-one_ to date me?” Eric demands, his mouth falling open.

Kent blushes. “Well, maybe not dating. But, like, for sex and stuff. That sort of thing.” Kent had been Eric’s first for nearly everything, and it hadn’t sat well with him. He’d _wanted_ Eric to fool around with guys his own age, not some lonely creeper in his mid-twenties who had a total of zero functional relationships under his belt at that point.    

But Eric had wanted him, and Kent had been helpless to resist.

“Sugar, there’s no way I’d have let you keep me waiting for a whole damn _year_ ,” Eric says.

“Yeah, I know,” Kent says, arching his brow pointedly. It’s not a coincidence that they had sex for the first time barely a month after Eric’s twentieth birthday.

Eric blushes, remembering. “Well,” he says determinedly, marching over to dump the dishes in the sink, “it turned out fine, didn’t it? Besides, an itty-bitty thing like a five-year age gap won’t matter at all when you’re ninety-five and I’m ninety. Nobody’ll bat an eye then.”

“Aw, babe,” Kent says, his heart a jackhammer in his chest. “You saying you’ll grow old with me?”

Eric’s mouth ticks up in a smile, but he shakes his head, feigning annoyance. “Kent Parson, what is the point of putting a ring on it if not to grow old with you?”

“I’m gonna puke,” Parse mutters, and Eric pokes him as he grabs his dishes.

“You shut it, mister,” he scolds.

Bitty adds, “Like you even have room to talk, Parse. You’re even more of a rom-com fan than _I_ am,” he says, knowingly.

Eric hums in agreement. “That’s right. You eat this stuff up. Admit it—Kenny and I are the cutest.”

“You tell yourself that, bud,” Parse says, then tilts his head to the side. “Though it _is_ true that you’re not as sickening as Bitty and Jack.”

“Excuse _me_ ,” Bitty says. “Jack and I are _adorable._ ”

“While I’m sure that’s true,” Eric says, “ _we_ are the most sickeningly sweet couple, hands-down. No offense, Zimmermann, but you strike me as a little too sensible to be as ridiculously, outrageously, foolishly romantic as my Kenny,” he says jokingly to Jack.

“You’d be surprised,” Bitty says dryly. “He bought me an oven for my birthday once.”

Eric waves a hand at his kitchen. “Kenny spent twenty grand on this kitchen.”

“He bought me the oven before we’d started dating,” Bitty counters.

“He renovated this room before I’d even graduated and moved here.”

“He put all my notes for him on the fridge at his apartment.”

“He made car karaoke videos for me and re-enacted scenes from John Hughes movies with the Aces’ help.”

“He got me the Ivy Park collection.”

“He _wears_ the Ivy Park collection with me.”

“He once drove all night to see me just to tell me he wanted to tell everyone about us,” Bitty says, then looks taken aback, like he didn’t mean to reveal that. Jack automatically reaches over and squeezes his hand, giving him a small smile.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “you gave me an earful for it, if I recall correctly.”

Bitty bites his lip. “Oh, hush you. You know I loved it.”

“Oh.” Kent clears his throat, feeling light-headed for some stupid reason. “That’s—that was nice of him.”

“Yeah,” Parse says, watching him closely. “Jack’s a good guy like that.”

(For Bitty, he means. Not like he was with them. Though maybe—maybe for _this_ Kent Parson things might be different. Maybe Jack would be like that for him, too.

The thought makes Kent’s chest ache.)

Eric makes a face at Parse, not noticing Kent’s disquiet. “Fine, fine, I get it already, Jack Zimmermann is not the devil incarnate,” he says, pouting.

“Good,” Parse says decisively at the same time Bitty says, “Why would you ever even _think_ that—”

Eric just levels him a quelling glance. “I have my reasons, and we’ll just leave it at that.” He smiles a little right after to take the sting out of it. “I’m glad your Jack is so wonderful, at least. Carrie will be happy.” He pauses. “Though, of course, he’s nowhere _near_ as lovely and sweet as my Kenny, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

Eric’s grin is wide and teasing as he says that last sentence, but his eyes are warm and serious when they look at Kent.

Bitty laughs and shakes his head. “You’re biased.”

“ _You’re_ jealous,” Eric quips.

“Because you’re dating the _second_ -handsomest man in the NHL?” Bitty says sarcastically.

“Because I’m dating the _hottest_ man in the _world_ , thank you very much,” Eric retorts, playful, but Parse just looks like he’s been pole-axed.

“You think I’m the second-hottest guy in the NHL?” he asks Bitty.

Bitty stiffens and blushes, which is. Well. Considering what Kent knows, it’s not _that_ surprising, but he guesses it _is_ news to Parse. “I said the second- _handsomest_ ,” Bitty corrects.

Parse is red-cheeked, too, but tries to play it off. “Still. I knew it was only a matter of time until you fell prey to my rakish good looks,” he says, winking.

“Ugh, your looks are the only good thing about you.” Bitty wrinkles his nose and turns away, though his ears are still flushed.

“Well, worth a shot,” Parse says, flippant, though he ambles over to where Eric is standing by the sink and doesn’t notice the glance Bitty sends his way, surprised and pleased.

Kent, for his part, avoids Jack’s gaze, thankful that Jack also seems to be avoiding his.

“Carrie’s going to die laughing when I tell her I got into yet another ‘my boyfriend’s better than yours’ argument, especially when she hears it was with _myself_ ,” Eric says, chuckling, and Kent would reply with something innocuous, except Eric turns on the water and _picks up the sponge_.

“Holy fuck,” Kent says, “are you doing the dishes?”

“Obviously, honey,” Eric says while nonchalantly dispensing some soap onto the sponge.

“But you _never_ do the dishes.” Kent can’t believe his eyes. Eric doesn’t even do the dishes at his _own apartment_. What the fucking hell?

Eric squints at him over his shoulder. “I’ve also never lived with a version of you who I couldn’t bribe with blowjobs, so what’s your point?”

Parse chokes, nearly dropping the plate he’s drying. “Oh, my God, _Eric_.”

“What? It’s true!”

Kent frowns. “Okay, I think I’d legitimately be less upset if you _had_ blown him. Like, honestly, what the fuck?”

“Baby, are you serious?” Eric says, amused.

Kent nods. “New ground rules, no washing the dishes for other people when you won’t wash them for me,” he declares.

Eric bats his lashes. “But, Kenny—”

“Bitty washes the dishes,” Jack interrupts, all wide-eyed innocence, but Kent _knows_ when he’s being a chirpy little fuck.

Bitty clears his throat. “That’s right. I do, because I’m a responsible adult,” he states, and Kent has to bite at his lip to keep from laughing.

“Well, I don’t, because I’ve got my man wrapped around my little finger, the way Mama is with Coach. _She_ never does dishes, either,” Eric says, unrepentant. “I just have to because I’m living with a guest in my house.”

“So, what, doing dishes is a sign of love?” Parse says, snorting.

“It is.” Eric flicks a few drops of water at him. “And don’t you take that tone with me—I know for a _fact_ that Kenny’s turned on by the most mundane of things.”

“Oh, come on, like what?” Parse asks, and, shit, abort, abort, he does _not_ want to go down this path.

Kent tries to save them both from the inevitable dive off the cliffs into the waves of embarrassment that that question is leading them to. “Uh, maybe we should—”

“Like when I sew buttons onto shirts and snap the thread with my teeth. Or whenever I pipe icing onto cakes. Or when I change the oil in his cars. Or when I win him prizes at kiddy shooting booths. Take your pick, all of those things have him swooning for some strange reason,” Eric says dryly.

“You mean…he’s got a competency kink?” Bitty asks, his brow furrowing.

Jack coughs, suddenly embarrassed, and, yup, yeah, uh-huh, Kent _knew_ they were going to regret this.

Kent tries to defend himself. “Well, I wouldn’t really call it a ki—”

“Please, baby, you were _all_ _over_ _me_ just a few weeks ago when I parallel parked the car,” Eric says, shooting him a smug smirk.

Now it’s Kent’s turn to furrow his brows. “What? When did I do that?” He fully admits that he’s done that before—Eric behind the wheel of a car is guaranteed to get him hot and heavy—but he’s been good at avoiding letting him drive lately, for that same reason. Gopher had given him shit about showing up at places looking thoroughly debauched—which he would’ve ignored, but then the Little Aces had launched a campaign to buy him ‘better hair stuff.’ You know, since he kept on coming to the rink with ‘really, really, really messy hair.’ Kent was pretty sure some of the older kids were starting to cotton on. Which. Like. He was trying to be a good role model here, alright?           

Hence not letting Eric drive him places.

Eric rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t play shy—it was about a month ago, when we went to Little Slice of Heaven, remember? When Irina made me take the day off?”

Kent frowns. “She made you take the day off? Why? Was your knee acting up?”

Eric gives him a look like he’s being deliberately obtuse, which he’s really not? He would’ve remembered this. “No, honey, it was just—” He breaks off, his eyes widening. “Oh. Oh, my God,” he says, “that wasn’t you, that was—”

Kent suddenly realizes that Parse has his shoulders hunched, and that the back of his neck and the tips of his ears are flushed a vivid red.

“Oh,” Eric says again, dropping the sponge, remorse written all over his face. “Oh, Parse, honey, I’m so sorry.”

“Uh, no, you don’t have to apologize. Really,” Parse says, still not turning around. “That wasn’t—it was my fault—”

“Honey, no,” Eric insists, putting his hand on his arm. “That’s on me, I’m so sorry—you didn’t—you shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have made you feel like you had to tolerate those kinds of advances from me. I—oh, honey, I really wished you’d said something earlier, I must’ve made you so uncomfortable.”

“No. I, uh. Really, it’s not—it wasn’t—Jesus fucking Christ, this is so awkward.” Parse runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. “It wasn’t…bad. I didn’t—if I didn’t like it, I would’ve stopped you, okay?”

Eric’s face falls. “But I—”

Parse puts out a hand, closes it firmly around Eric’s wrist so that he stops wringing his hands. “Eric. I liked it. Okay? I liked it.”

Eric blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” Parse laughs a little, shrugs helplessly. “You didn’t hurt me, or make me do anything I didn’t want to, or force me into anything.” He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Actually, _I_ should be the one apologizing, because you didn’t know that you were kissing a stranger all those times.”

“Baby, no,” Eric bursts out, “baby, you know that I—I’m—I know you, honey. You’re not a stranger. You’re—you’re not my Kenny, true, but you’re still Kent Parson, and I—well. I adore Kent Parson. Every version of him.” He touches a tender hand to Parse’s jaw. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Parse whispers.

Eric smiles up at him. “Good.” They stay like that for a long moment, before Eric pulls away. He bites his lip right afterwards, a mischievous glint in his eye that Kent recognizes all too well. “Though, really—I still can’t believe parallel parking turns you on in every universe.”

Parse turns to face him, and his cheeks are still stained bright scarlet. “Okay, that’s not—it’s just—can we agree that, objectively, you are sort of an attractive person who does certain things attractively, and not make some big, huge deal out of it? Parallel parking does _not_ turn me on, thank you very much, _you_ do.”

At that last sentence, Bitty makes a noise that can only be charitably described as a squeak. “Good Lord,” he says, his eyes darting around the room, settling anywhere that isn’t on Parse or Kent.

Parse clears his throat, blushing even harder. “Like I said, _objectively_ I can admit that you’re kind of hot. In a very clinical, purely aesthetic, non-sexual kind of way. I’m not—I’m not hitting on anybody in the room, alright, I’m not even _thinking_ of hitting on anybody. I’m just stating plain, hard facts here.”

“Right. Of course. Yes,” Bitty says, still avoiding his gaze. “Facts.”

“It _is_ a fact that you’re very hot,” Jack says, smiling a little. “I mean that in a very clinical, purely aesthetic, extremely sexual sort of way, of course.”

“Don’t you chirp me, Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Bitty mutters, elbowing him a little.

Kent watches them for a second before purposefully making a face at Parse, who still looks a little embarrassed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but there is no ‘kind of’ about Eric’s hotness. Like, he is _scorching_ hot, like he’s blazing hot, like he’s a hundred-and-twenty-degrees, Vegas-desert hot. That kind of hot. And I’m sure anyone with eyes would agree with me. Right, Zimms?” he tosses out.

Jack shoots him a look, somewhere between wry and amused and achingly fond—they might not have much in common anymore, but he can admit they have this:

They’re both stupidly in love with Eric Bittle.

“Yeah,” Jack says, “he is.”

 

\---

 

That night, Bitty pulls on his sleep-clothes and tries not to spontaneously combust.

Kent Parson thinks he’s hot. _Their_ Kent Parson thinks he’s hot. The Kent Parson who ruthlessly chirps his procrastination habits, and constantly calls him ‘kid,’ and keeps a running tally of all the times Bitty gets carded when they go out for drinks thinks that he, Eric Bittle, is hot.

It’s a lot to process, alright? He doesn’t know what to do with this information, the suggestion, the hint, really, that Parse might—just _might_ —not be unopposed to the idea of having sexual relations with Bitty.  

Bitty sits on the bed and fiddles with Señor Bun’s ears. It could be an actual thing, a real possibility:

Him and Jack and Parse. They could do it. They could have that.

Bitty takes a deep breath and gets up, walking to the bathroom to see what’s taking Jack so long, bursting with the need to talk about this.

“Jack, honey?” he says, opening the door, then stops at the sound of a guttural moan.

The walls of their apartment aren’t particularly thin, but they’re not particularly thick, either. That’s never been more evident than right here, right now, when he finds Jack gripping the counter, red as a fire hydrant, while Kent’s voice echoes from the other side.

“Eric,” he’s saying—he’s _panting_ , actually, breathy and shameless—“Eric, fuck, wanna be on my knees for you so bad, want you to fuck my mouth—would you fuck my mouth, please, pretty please—?”

There’s a reply, faint and muffled, and Bitty can’t hear what it is, but he _can_ hear Kent’s answering moan, the way he gets louder and more desperate: “Yes, yes, I’d beg for you, you know I would, you know I’d—God, please, just use me. Make me take it, shut me up with your cock—” He cuts off with a laugh, low and affectionate in a way that only makes him sound sexier. “C’mon, honey, you know I’m always gagging for it—fuck, I wish I could touch you. Wish I could watch you touch yourself. I want it, I want you, _Eric_ —”

“Oh, good Lord,” Bitty breathes, and Jack’s head snaps up, his gaze meeting Bitty’s in the mirror, his eyes all pupil, his face flushed red. Abruptly, he pushes away from the counter, brushing past Bitty to walk into the bedroom.

Bitty follows him, closing the door to the restroom tightly shut behind him, and cutting off the sound of Kent getting halfway through saying, “I love you.”

Jack’s lying on the bed, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his body curled on its side, turned away from Bitty. Bitty sits on the bed next to him, reaches out and gently places his hand on his shoulder. “Sweetpea?” he asks, softly as possible.

“Sorry,” Jack answers, voice rough. “Shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have been listening.”

“Well,” Bitty says slowly, “it’s not really your fault the wall’s thinner in the restroom. I mean—you were just trying to brush your teeth, honey.”

Jack huffs out a laugh, turns over onto his back and smiles at Bitty, a little sheepish. Bitty can just make out the outline of his dick tenting his sweatpants, confirming his suspicion at what it was Jack was trying to hide.

Jack catches his line of sight and blushes harder, if that’s even possible. “Bits,” he says, apologetic, but Bitty just leans forward and kisses him.

“It’s fine, honey,” he says. “He’s—he’s really good at that, huh? Dirty-talking?”

Jack gives a small nod. “Sorry,” he says again. “I know it had to be really—weird. For you.”

Bitty giggles a little, biting at his lip. “Well, I won’t deny that. But—” He takes Jack’s hand, presses a kiss to his palm before taking it and placing it against his own half-hard erection. “You were hardly the only one affected, sweetie. I was on board for the threesome, remember? I’d be a hypocrite if I got mad at you for getting turned on by something that turns me on, too.”

Jack groans and pushes himself up onto an elbow, and Bitty bends his head to kiss him. There’s not a lot of talking after that.  

 

\---

 

“Okay,” Bitty says afterwards, Jack’s head resting on his chest, both of their breathing finally evening out. “I might have a confession to make.”

Jack looks up at him, nothing but trust in his eyes.

Bitty takes a deep breath. “I think—I think I have a crush on him. On our Parse. The other Parse, too, of course, but—”

But it’s the one he knows, the one who banters with him, the one who’d looked so shocked to hear that Bitty thought he was good-looking—as if this was even in _doubt_ , of course Bitty thinks he’s attractive, always has, even when the fact had annoyed him, even though he’s never thought about doing anything about it until now—

It’s the Parse who’d blushed when he’d admitted to being attracted Eric—which means that, theoretically, he’s also attracted to Bitty—it’s _that_ Parse he wants to start something with.

It’s _their_ Parse.

“I want us to try again,” Bitty says, “when he gets back home. With the right one this time. I want us to try.”

“Bits, of course,” Jack says, kissing him softly. “Whatever you want. I said I didn’t mind if you two—”

“I want it to be the three of us,” Bitty interrupts. “Honey, you can’t think that I’d leave you out of it? It’s got to be all or nothing with us.”

Jack lets out a frustrated noise. “But Parse doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t want you? Jack, have you seen the way he is around Zimmermann?” Bitty demands.

Jack’s jaw clenches. “You mean the way Zimmermann is around him,” he says, sullen. “Parse keeps on pulling away, you’ve seen him. He’s not comfortable with it.”

“That’s because of _you_ ,” Bitty says, exasperated. He knows he’s right, he just knows it. “Sweetpea, of course he’s not going to let Zimmermann close to him when you’re right there! He wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, or for _Eric_ to be uncomfortable, either, considering all their history. Not under his own roof.”

Jack looks at him doubtfully and Bitty can feel the headache coming on. “Baby,” Bitty says, “that’s not even the most important thing right now.”

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s not. The most important thing is if _you_ even want him,” Bitty states. He’s certain he knows the answer, but for all the things they’ve said and addressed, Jack has never actually come out and said those exact words in that exact order:

 _I want Kent Parson_.

(Or, more accurately, _I love Kent Parson_ , but Bitty’s rather sure that that will take about a hundred more days of dancing around the topic and at least fifteen oblique proxy conversations before they’re ready to have _that_ talk.)

Jack hesitates. “I don’t see why—” He cuts himself off and sighs. “It’s not going to come to anything, but yes,” he admits. “Yes, I want him still.”

Bitty holds him closer, tension draining from him at the admission. “Then let’s ask when he gets back,” he says gently. “Let’s ask if he wants us, too. Surely it won’t hurt anything?”

Jack shakes his head. “It will,” he insists, his breathing speeding up some, “it will, Bits, it’ll ruin everything if the answer’s no—”

“Honey,” Bitty says, touching a gentle hand to Jack’s chest, “it won’t. Parse isn’t like that. You heard him tonight. If he doesn’t like it, then he’ll just stop us, simple as that. He won’t cut us out of his life, he won’t stop being our friend—the answer will just be no.”

Jack squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t know if I can handle that,” he admits in a small whisper. “Just the thought of it is—is—” He shudders. “It’s a lot.”

Bitty presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Then let me ask,” he says softly. “You don’t even have to be there if you can’t handle it, but—at least let me ask.”

“Okay,” Jack says. 

“I don’t think the answer will be what you’re afraid of,” Bitty says, “but even if it is—well, we’ll still have each other, won’t we?”

Jack looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Bitty,” he says, grasping blindly for Bitty’s hand, “Bitty, of course, yes, I’ll still be with you, of course I will, I love you.”

Bitty tilts their foreheads together. “Then everything will be just fine either way, Mr. Zimmermann,” he declares, “because no matter what, we’re in this together.”

Jack kisses him in answer, and, well. Bitty can live with that.         

 

\---

 

Kent Parson decides to amicably break up with Brian the production assistant after date number five.

“Nope,” Parse says decisively. “That’s it, we’re done.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Parse?” Kenny demands, tugging at his hair in frustration. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? You just said he told you that he prefers Christina Aguilera over Britney Spears!” Kent gestures in agitation. “I can’t stay with a guy like that!”

“Parse, stop fucking messing around,” Kenny snarls.

“I’m not!” Kent insists. “I just—I don’t like him, okay? Not enough to fall in love with. I’m sure he’s a great guy, but—”

“That’s what you’ve said about every-fucking-body I’ve found for you. Get off your damn high horse and give these people a chance,” Kenny says, practically spitting the words at him.

Kent has the urge to stab him in the thigh. What the fuck does he know about it? He’s got _Eric_ , for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t have to settle for anyone, so why is he asking Kent to do the same?

 _Because Bitty’s taken, you dumbass_ , his brain helpfully points out.  

“Honey,” Eric says, admonishing, “you _know_ you can’t just make him fall in love with somebody. He’s doing his best. Cut him some slack, please.” Eric leans his forehead against the mirror, which is right next to the dining table. Kenny eats sitting next to Zimms’ kitchen sink, so whenever he finishes something on his plate Eric can just lean over and kiss him through the glass. It’s probably really unsanitary, but Eric insisted, so what was Kenny going to do? Say no? As if.

Kent pushes down on the jealousy he feels towards Kenny and concentrates on his gratitude for Eric. “Thanks, Eric,” he says. “I’m working on it, dude, it’s just difficult without a physical connection. Like, who knows, maybe I really _would_ like Brian, but I can’t tell, okay? I just—I can’t feel the spark, man,” Kent argues. Like, fuck, he’s really, really trying, okay? It’s just—none of the conversations he’s been having with anybody make him think, _Wow, fuck yes, this is the one_. Honestly, they don’t even make him go, _Huh, you know what, they sound fun, so why not?_ Which is generally enough to get him through a few dates.

Mostly, though, his thoughts have gone, _Mm, no, thank you._

Kenny frowns at him judgmentally. “Look, it doesn’t always come down to sex, Parse,” he says, and that’s _totally_ not what he’s talking about.

Before he can explain it, however, Jack gets there first. Or, well, Zimmermann does: “That’s not what he means, Kent,” Zimms says from beside him. “You know yourself. He’s not talking about sex, he’s talking about holding hands. Sitting next to each other. Being in the same space.” He nods pointedly at where Kenny’s pressing himself to the window to try and get as close to Eric as possible. “Touch grounds you. It always has. He can’t exactly have that with anybody when he’s stuck here though, can he?”

“ _Thank you_ , Zimms,” Parse says, punching his shoulder affectionately. “That’s exactly what I wanted to say.”

Zimms elbows his side. “No problem, man.”

Eric bites his lip and eyes the two of them. “But how’s he going to get that if he’s here?” he says quietly.

Surprisingly, it’s Bitty who has the answer:

“Um, why don’t you try dating somebody there, and then Kent will find them for you here? I mean, falling in love just means you fall in love. It doesn’t matter which world you do it in, right?”

Eric, Parse, and Zimms all stare at him.

“Bitty,” Parse says, grinning at him, “you’re a fucking genius.”

To his surprise, Bitty blushes. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Eric is grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the bedroom, talking a mile a minute about outfits, and clubs, and a million other things.

He looks super-fucking excited, though, so Parse just stands there and lets him pick everything out to his heart’s content.

Whatever Eric wants, honestly.

 

\---

 

What Eric wants is apparently Kent in leather pants, a tight dark blue V-neck, and black eyeliner.

(“Hold still, honey,” Eric murmurs, grasping his chin and drawing on him with an expert hand.

Kent licks his lips and holds still for him.)

 

\---

 

Zimms drops his phone when they walk back into the room. “Crisse, Kenny,” he says, his eyes going wide, and Kent feels heat rushing to his face.

“I look that bad?” he jokes, hoping nobody notices how red he is. The lighting’s kinda dim here, right?

Zimms shakes his head, his pupils huge and dark, and the last time he’d looked that way at Kent, Kent had had him on his knees by the end of the night.

Which is. Obviously not what’s going to happen here, Jesus fucking Christ. Zimms is making moves on Camilla, and Kent’s going to making moves on some random person, and neither of them want each other anymore, remember?

 _You’re imagining things_ , he tells himself. _You’ve been imagining things all week_.

Zimms nudging his side, Zimms draping his arm around his shoulder, Zimms turning his body to lean into Kent’s—it’s platonic. It’s all platonic, exactly the kind of dynamic they had during Juniors, nothing but play-fighting and physical affection, nothing sexual about it.

( _But that’s how it started, don’t you remember? That’s how it started_ , a voice reminds him.)

Then Eric glides past in high-waisted short-shorts and a cut-off tank top, and Kent’s attention is caught in his wake.

(Jack’s attention is caught, too, and there’s a moment where Eric is bent over, fiddling with his shoes, that Kent’s and Jack’s gazes end up meeting when they both look up from staring at his ass.

Jack looks away, blushing, and Kent rolls his shoulders.

It’s fine. He gets it. It’s a great ass, who wouldn’t stare?)

“You look good enough to eat, sugar,” Eric says, tossing a coy smile over his shoulder. “I do beautiful work, Parse, and you were gorgeous to start with.”

“Yeah,” Zimms breathes, and then looks shocked, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Eric glances at him sharply. Zimms looks back, vaguely sheepish, and shrugs. Eric smiles ruefully, and some wordless conversation seems to pass between them before they turn their eyes on Kent.

“You ready?” Eric asks.

“Um. Yes,” Kent says.

Honestly? He’s really, really not.

 

\---

 

Two bars, three dance clubs, and an inadvisable amount of margaritas later, Kent is some ways past tipsy and on his way to drunk. He’s also having a ton of fun, like, no, really, he’s _really_ having a ton of fun. Everything is just so—so bright, and shiny, and fucking beautiful, like, fuck, he really loves this desert hellhole of a city and how fucking unapologetic it is about its fakeness and its ostentatiousness and its sheer, gutsy _sleaziness_. Like, damn, Vegas is trashy, and Kent is trashy, and they are both fucking glorious.

Kent tips his head back and laughs and laughs, nothing but wide-mouthed grins and lazy winks. He’s flirted with more people than he has in _ages_ , got a collection of numbers slipped into his pockets or scrawled onto his arm, even, and wow, he forgot how fun that could be. Why hasn’t he been doing this again? He should’ve been doing this ages ago, he’s really fucking good at it, and he really fucking loves how it feels to be wanted like this, how _easy_ it is, how he could just reach out and get somebody to look at him if he wanted to—

“Parse,” someone says, and, fuck, if it isn’t his favorite voice. He’d know that voice anywhere.

“Zimms!” he shouts, turning around, and there he is, his favorite fucking person. “You’re here!”

Zimms smiles back at him, small and crooked, and, fuck, Kent’s missed him, he really fucking has. “How much have you had to drink?” Zimms asks, leaning in to murmur it against Kent’s ear, and Kent shivers in response and takes a step closer. Which might be too close, considering how he ends up plastered against Zimms’ front, but Zimms isn’t moving away, so maybe not?

“Not that much,” he says cheerily, swaying with the music as he grins up at him. “I missed you, did you know that?”

Zimms suddenly looks like somebody punched him in the gut, and Kent makes a wounded noise in response. “Sorry,” he says immediately, clutching at Zimms’ arm. “I didn’t mean to say that. I’m fine, I promise, I’m just happy to see you, I didn’t miss you. I didn’t,” he says, trying to put as much sincerity as he can into his voice. “It’s just—you’re here.”

Zimms takes a deep breath, and Kent can feel it against his chest. Fuck, too close, they’re really too close, the paps are going to see and start the rumors again—

But wait. He’s out. Zimms is out. Zimms is—Zimms is dating somebody, right. Right. Bitty.

He should still take a step back, then, he can’t be too clingy. He’s gotta be good, he’s gotta prove he can be trusted, see, he’s over him now, they can be friends, Zimms, they can—

Zimms’ arm drops around his shoulder, and the next thing he knows, Kent is leaning against the wall of a relatively empty hallway and Zimms is right next to him, crowing close like he’s trying to act as a bulwark against the world.

“Hey,” Kent says, shaking his head. He’s maybe more drunk than he thought he was. “That’s my job.” He tries to push Zimms out of the way, switch places with him. It’s Kent’s place to be between Zimms and everybody else, they established that ages ago.

“Kenny,” Zimms says, and Kent Parson looks up, his hands tangled in Jack Zimmermann’s shirt.

“Yeah, Zimms?” he says.

“Are you really over me?” Zimms asks, his voice small.

Kent can’t help it. He laughs in his face, loud and obnoxious, because that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all year.

Zimms tries to pull away, but the joke’s on him—Kent’s still got his hands gripping his shirt so all that happens is that Kent gets pulled along with him. “What a fucking idiot,” Kent says, crashing against his body. “Am I over you. Is this even a question. Is this even a thing. Oh, my God, Zimms, everybody knows I’m never, ever fucking getting over you. That’s like a song, right? Like, that one Taylor Swift song, yeah?” Kent starts singing: “Weeee—are never, _everrrrr—_ getting _back_ toge—”

Jack Zimmermann kisses him.

 _Wait, what?_ he thinks, before his instincts kick in and say, _You fucking idiot, don’t just stand there, this is your last fucking chance_.

Kent Parson, God help him, kisses him back.

 

\---

 

After a minute—or five minutes, or ten, or, hell, it could possibly be an hour, time has lost all meaning for him by that point, honestly—Zimms pulls away to nuzzle softly at that one spot on Kent’s jaw, and Kent can barely catch his breath, oh, God, it feels so good. He whimpers, tilts his head back and hopes Zimms gets the message and sucks harder.

“Parse,” Zimms says instead, “Kenny, I missed you.”

Kent’s eyes snap open. That—that sounds wrong, somehow. Zimms’ voice is—it’s _weird_. He doesn’t sound like that when he talks to Kent, he only sounds like that when he’s talking to _Bitty_.

Bitty. Fuck. Oh, fuck, oh goddamn, he’s screwing this all up. Kent wrenches back and pushes on Jack’s shoulders. “What the fuck, Zimms?” he pants. “You—I—what the hell is going on? We can’t, you’ve got—you’ve got somebody—”

“I don’t have anybody,” Zimms says, leaning in for another kiss. He tastes like rum and Coke, all sticky sweet, and Kent can’t remember why this is a bad idea.

“No, you—you have—Bitty. You have Bitty,” Kent says, turning his face away. “I shouldn’t—mama didn’t raise no home—I’m not gonna _cheat_ , Zimms.”

“It’s not cheating,” Zimms tells him, his mouth so close it brushes against Kent’s lips when he shakes his head. “I’m single. You’re single. We’re not hurting anybody, Kenny.”

Kent blinks, piecing his thoughts together. “No,” he says, slowly. “There’s—there’s somebody. I’m—I’ve got—I’ve got—”

Zimms pulls away and looks down at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re drunk,” he says, cursing softly, and Kent shakes his head.

“’m not _that_ drunk,” he argues, but Zimms is moving away already, and just behind him is—

“Eric,” Kent says, surprised, reaching a hand out. When did he get there?

Eric is by his side immediately. “There you are, baby,” he says, pushing Kent’s hair back, draping Kent’s arm over his shoulders and taking his weight. “I was getting worried.”

“Why’re you crying?” Kent asks, swiping at Eric’s cheeks. “Something—is something wrong?” 

“No, sugar.” Eric shakes his head quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re lying,” Kent says, matter-of-fact, and Eric laughs, pained and hollow. Kent doesn’t like that laugh. Eric shouldn’t sound like that, not ever.

“Bittle,” Zimms says, all hang-dog sadness, and, oh, no, he’s sad, as well.

“Don’t be sad, Zimms,” Kent mumbles, reaching out for him, too.

Zimms backs away. “I’m sorry,” he says to Kent, and then he looks at Eric and says it again.

Eric shakes his head, all fierce denial. “Not here,” he says. “We’ve gotta—we’ve gotta get home. We’ll talk then, okay? Is that okay, baby?” he asks Kent.

“Yes,” Kent tells him firmly. “Whatever you want.”

Eric laughs again, the sound of it like a splinter lodging itself in his throat. “Okay, sugar,” he says, unsteady, and then he and Zimms take Kent home.

 

\---

 

In the morning, Kent wakes up in the guest bedroom to no cats and a raging hangover. Unfortunately, he also wakes up remembering everything from the night before.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, putting his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

 

\---

 

These are the facts:

Kent Parson isn’t having a hard time falling in love because of a lack of physical contact, oh, no.

Kent Parson is having a hard time falling in love because:

1) He’s still in love with Jack Zimmermann.

and

2) He’s also in love with Eric Richard Bittle, figure skater and fiancé of his alternate-self.

Just his fucking luck.

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so this chapter is 17K. This fic is now currently the official longest single work in the PB &J tag. Ahahaha. Ha. *clears throat* See, I did this thing where I wrote the _beginning_ and the _end_ of the chapter, and then wrote the middle. And kept on adding bits. And thinking of new situations. And adding _more_ bits, because I'm self-indulgent as hell.
> 
> Well, anyway, I hope it was worth it! ^^
> 
> Special mentions of the week go to: gutsybitsies, who 1) keeps editing these monster-length chapters completely free of charge and very, very quickly and 2) keeps on encouraging me to write MORE SCENES like a vicious enabler, like honestly, you can thank her for a good 4K words here, my God. Julorean, who is the sweetest. beaniebaneenie, who warms my heart. bookwyrmling, who makes my day. The rest of the OMGCP Discord group, who as always help me slog through my writing jogs (can't really be called sprints at this point when I feel like I'm running a marathon, lol). G, because best sister is best sister.
> 
> Shout-out also to all my reviewers! Guess who posted this chapter early enough to finally reply to you all? :D Thanks also to my quiet readers who still read this thing and spend time with this fic I've crafted - like, you make my words come alive because you carry them inside your head as you read, so I think you're pretty great, you know? :D And to whoever the hell is recommending me on twitter - YOU ARE AWESOME. :D
> 
> Have a great week, everybody! I'm sending good vibes to you all!!! (Also, there's a snippet [here](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/169774175977/best-of-2k17-things-i-wrote-that-i-loved) for a _very_ NSFW BittyParse AU prequel I've got in the works for when this fic is done, so if you want to take a gander. ;)


	11. apparently with no surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You idiot,” Eric Bittle breathes out, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Oh, you absolute idiot, how are we ever going to sort ourselves out of this mess?”
> 
> “I’m sorry,” Jack Zimmermann says yet again. At least he sounds like he means it this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, folks, this is 15K of feels, so buckle up.
> 
> Warning: Rating's been bumped up for some explicit lovin'. Skip the section that starts "Contrary to Kent's hopes" if this is not your thing. Also, apologies for the butchering of any real-life facts re: Olympic Games, _especially_ in regards to hockey, because I did some research but decided to just hand-wave a lot of the details. Mostly because my brain was starting to fizzle. Please forgive my laziness and ineptitude. ^^;;
> 
> What you need to know for this AU: 1) We're pretending that NHL players were allowed to compete at Pyeongchang. 2) We're also pretending that Russian athletes were also allowed to compete as Russians, instead of as Olympic Athletes from Russia. 3) The actual medal standings of the U.S. and Canada in both figure skating and men's ice hockey are whatever I needed them to be for this fic. As much as possible, I tried to avoid using the names of real athletes, so apologies to the real-life medalists, especially in men's figure skating. They've largely been replaced by YOI skaters, so shout-out to any YOI fans out there. You'll know 'em when you see them. ^^ 
> 
> Thanks as always to [gutsybitsies](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/) for continuing to be the best beta anyone could ask for. Title taken from [this poem](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Apparently_with_no_surprise).

\---

 

 _Apparently with no surprise_  
_To any happy Flower —_  
_The Frost beheads it at its play_  
_In accidental power _—__

  

\---

  

Eric puts Parse to bed in the guest room, makes sure he downs a cup of water and takes some aspirin before he falls asleep. He peels him out of his jeans and his shirt, runs a hand through his messy hair, and murmurs soothingly to him when Parse mumbles in distress.

“Stay,” Parse pleads.

Eric wants to cry again when he replies, “I can’t, baby.”

“Am I—did I do something wrong?” Parse asks, plaintive, and Eric can’t help himself. He leans down and presses his forehead to Parse’s, slides their faces close together.

“No, baby, you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just very drunk right now, and that means I need to leave you alone,” he replies, half-mumbling the words against the place where Parse’s jaw connects to his cheekbone.

“Why? Doesn’t matter. I don’t mind if you don’t,” Parse says matter-of-factly, his words slurred together, and his hand lands on Eric’s waist and pulls him closer. “Stay,” he says again, his eyes earnest. “’m sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to. You’re—you’re the one I—the one I—”  

Eric _does_ end up crying, a few tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes as he crawls into the bed and wraps himself around Parse, a mess of gnarled emotions making its way up his throat and choking him. “Baby, it’s fine, you don’t have to explain. I know what you mean. We’ll—we’ll have that talk in the morning, okay?” he says.

“Mmkay,” Parse says, and nuzzles his cheek against Eric’s. “Love you.”

Eric freezes.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be getting in bed with Parse and holding him like he has a right to him. He shouldn’t feel this mix of elation and vindictive triumph that, at the end of the day, Parse wants _him_ to stay, him and not anybody else. He has to send this Parse back to his own world; he can’t let Parse fall in love with him. It’ll break Parse’s heart to lose him, he _knows_ that.

Eric reminds himself of all the reasons why this is a terrible idea, but Parse turns over in his arms and sighs, a soft, pliant sound, his whole body melting against Eric’s—and that’s it, that’s all. Eric’s done for. Eric pulls him closer so he can spoon him, and he goes willingly, sweet as anything, letting Eric bury his face against the nape of his neck, letting Eric sneak his arms around his waist, letting him tangle their legs together.

“I love you, too,” Eric whispers back, his hand pressed over Parse’s heart.

Parse doesn’t reply. He’s already asleep, thank God.

Eric gives himself ten minutes of listening to his breathing, waiting until it evens out to his faint, snuffling snores, and then he places one last kiss on Kent Parson’s cheek and gets out of his bed.

Time to face the music.

 

\---

 

Jack Zimmermann isn’t sitting in any of the living rooms when he gets out.

Eric has a moment of black-out rage at the thought that he might’ve run out on them—after pulling _that_ stunt? How fucking dare he?—but then he hears Kit’s demanding meow coming from the kitchen.   

When he gets to the doorway, Zimmermann is feeding her tidbits off his plate of eggs and sausage. The toaster oven’s on, with some of Eric’s biscuits heating up, and Eric can smell the coffee brewing. There’s a jar of the real maple syrup sitting on the counter next to Purrs, and Eric watches as Zimmermann takes it and pours some over his sausages, ignoring Purrs’ unhappy hiss.

“I’m not feeding you sausage,” Zimmermann says patiently. “Your cholesterol levels are too high. You know this. You can have some eggs if you behave.” He reaches out and scratches gently underneath Purrs’ chin, and Purrs butts his head against his hand after, affectionate in a way that surprises Eric. For all that Kit is the aloof and judgmental one, Purrs is _never_ that way around strangers—

But then Zimmermann isn’t a stranger, is he? He’s met Purrs before. Eric’s seen the pictures, tucked away in old albums at the Parson house in Rochester: Purrs draped over Zimmermann’s lap, with the cat’s head resting on Kenny’s knee. Kenny’s thigh was jammed against Zimmermann’s leg, his arm around his waist, his head resting on his shoulder, Kenny’s eyes half-closed and his smirk self-satisfied, looking like a cat who’d caught the canary. Zimmermann, on the other hand, had looked impossibly young, all wide, blue eyes and shy, crooked smiles.

There’s more than a decade separating the boy in those pictures from the man now sitting in Eric’s kitchen, but Eric can see the echoes of him clear as day in the set of his shoulders, the bend of his fingers, the curl of his mouth. Eric’s lost count of the times he thought, _Oh, it’s you. You’re the one who’s been haunting Kenny._

He’s still there—the ghost of the boy who Kent Parson loved.

Eric thinks that maybe it’s time to put him to rest.

He steps into the kitchen and clears his throat.

Zimmermann looks up immediately, freezing in place, guilt painted all over his face. “Eric,” he says. “Hi.”

Eric raises a brow. “Really? _That’s_ your opening line?”

Zimmermann looks away, shrugging half-heartedly. “Seemed the safest thing to say,” he says, his voice a low rumble. Eric fights the urge to shiver when he hears it—practically everything about Jack Zimmermann is handsome and attractive and ridiculously tempting, the epitome of masculine beauty and strength. Eric’s known it for years; it’s half the reason he hated the man so much.

If Zimmermann was the kind of person Kent wanted, how could Eric possibly compete? He’s everything Eric isn’t.

Eric stares at him, envy and anger tangling in his gut, while Zimmermann hesitates. Eventually he asks softly, “How’s Kenny doing?”

Eric bristles. “ _Parse_ is doing fine,” he says pointedly as he takes the stool opposite Zimmermann. He reaches out a hand to pet Kit, who’s abandoned her attempts to steal the sausage in favor of batting her head against Eric’s elbow. Purrs, however, doesn’t budge from his place in front of Zimmermann, though he does _mrrow_ in greeting when Eric settles down. Eric tries and fails not to feel like they’re engaging in some strange custody battle. “He’s sound asleep in the guest bedroom. I made him drink some water, but considering how drunk he was, he’ll probably still regret it in the morning.”

Zimmermann flinches, and Eric feels a stab of vindictive pleasure.

“Sorry,” Zimmermann says again, echoing the sentiment from earlier that night. “I wouldn’t have kissed him if I realized how drunk he was.”

Eric scoffs. “You do realize that implies you would’ve kissed him if he weren’t drunk, right?”

Zimmermann looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he states.

Eric freezes. “And what in the living hell,” he says, heated, “is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Yes,” Zimmermann repeats, not raising his voice, “I would’ve kissed him. If he weren’t drunk. And if he let me.”

“You—you—what the hell, you’re not sorry at all, are you?” Eric demands, incredulous. “You—you don’t feel any shame whatsoever, kissing someone who’s—”

“Who’s single? No, I don’t,” Zimmermann says, cutting him off with a frown.

Eric’s mouth drops open. “Excuse me?” He opens his mouth to assert that Kent Parson is quite definitively taken, by _him_ , actually, and he’s got the ring to prove it, thank you very much, sir—

But he’s thinking about Kenny, isn’t he? Parse isn’t taken by anybody, no matter how much Eric wants to claim him, too.

Eric closes his mouth and glowers.

Zimmermann squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, resolute. “I’m sorry that it upset you to see that, and I’m sorry that I didn’t realize he wasn’t sober enough to properly consent—”

Eric snorts derisively.

“—but I’m not going to apologize for wanting him.” Zimmermann drops his eyes to the counter. “God knows I’ve wasted enough time being sorry for that,” he mutters, half under his breath. Eric’s not entirely sure he was meant to hear that.

“But _why?”_ Eric bursts out. “Why now? You—you could’ve had him any time you wanted him—”

Jack tries to protest, “That’s not true—”  

Eric rolls right over his words, heedless. “—and you pick _now_ of all times to decide that, ‘oh, good golly, maybe I really should try and fuck him—’”

“Eric—”

“— _now_ , when he’s with me, when he loves _me_ , when he’s finally, finally fucking _over_ you—”

“I _know_ that!” Jack shouts, slamming a fist down on the counter. The cats startle, darting towards Eric, who pets them reassuringly while never taking his eyes off of Jack, his eyes narrowed in a glare even as his body seizes up and his knees quiver with nervous tension.

He realizes that he took a step back. God damn it.

He shuffles forward again, not willing to give a single inch in his own house. _Zimmermann_ is the interloper here, the one who isn’t welcome, the one who doesn’t belong in the home that he and Kent built together.     

Jack watches the movement with an almost guilty look, the fist he slammed down opening up and dragging along the tiles, palm laid flat, fingers splayed, to drop out of sight. “Sorry,” he says again. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.”

 _You should be_ , Eric thinks, mutinous. But he thinks they’d disagree on what exactly he owes Eric an apology for. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

Jack won’t meet his eyes. “I know he’s over me. I know—he loves you so much, I know that. I’ve _known_ it. Ever since last year, at Pyeongchang—anyone paying attention for longer than ten seconds could see it, Eric. I’m not stupid. But—” He hesitates, the moment stretching out over long, uncomfortable seconds.

 _See, the thing about Zimms is that you had to wait him out. He never, ever wanted to talk about anything except hockey, which drove me up the fucking wall, lemme tell you, but, uh—_ Kenny had laughed, soft and sweet, his mouth ticked up in a carelessly affectionate smile as he reminisced. _Wow, if you waited long enough, God, he’d tell you—he’d tell you everything. It’d just—it’d come pouring out of him, you know? Like a flood after a drought, and there I’d be, couldn’t get a word in edgewise until he said his piece. You just had to wait for him. That guy, honestly._

And he’d shaken his head and smiled, rueful. _But you don’t want to hear about that, do you? It’s ancient history, I don’t know why Carrie brought him up with you—hey, do you want to hear about what Gopher did to Swoops for his last prank? You know, just last week, he—_    

That had been early in their relationship, the first time Kent had ever told Eric about Jack Zimmermann, the best friend he’d had in the Q.

Eric takes his advice and waits Zimmermann out now, and he doesn’t disappoint.

“But this Parse—he’s—he’s _here_ , you know? He—he’s right there, and God knows that I probably made all the same mistakes with him that I did with yours, but this one—” Zimmermann runs an agitated hand through his hair. “He’s forgiven me. He doesn’t hate me, he doesn’t want nothing to do with me, he’s willing to talk to me, and he’s willing to _listen_. And I know—I know it’s my own damn fault that Kent and I aren’t like that. I’m the one who cut off contact, I’m the one who stopped being friends with him, I _get that_. But I—it’s—God, I don’t know how to say it.”

He takes a deep breath, eyes squeezed tight for a moment before he opens them and looks at Eric with a pleading expression. “It’s not that I didn’t want to be friends with him—it’s that I _couldn’t_. I couldn’t—I couldn’t handle it then, and I knows how it sounds, but I _couldn’t_. And by the time I could—” He shrugs, smiles bitterly. “Well, by that point he didn’t want to be friends. And I don’t blame him.”

Zimmermann looks down at his hands for a moment, dark lashes shielding him from view. Then he glances up—piercing, direct—and states, “But with _this_ Parse? If I have the chance, I’m going to take it.”

Eric stares at him. “It didn’t look to me that you wanted to be _friends_ earlier tonight,” he says, the words coming out low-voiced, accusatory.

“I’d take friends if that was all he was offering, but if more is on the table, then I won’t say no,” Zimmermann says, squaring his shoulders.

“More isn’t on the table,” Eric hisses. “I—he—he’s _mine_.”

“I’m not asking for yours!” Zimmermann says, raising his voice. “You don’t understand! I’m not asking for Kenny, I just want—I want _this_ Parse, Eric, the Parse who wants me back,” he says, gesturing to the room down the hall where Kent Parson lies sleeping. “That’s all I want, Eric. That’s _who_ I want. I promise.”

 _Liar_ , Eric thinks, feeling the urge to cry.

Eric shakes his head, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “But he’s not staying here,” he says, forcing the words past a throat that feels like it’s closing up. “He’s got—he’s got a whole other life, and a whole other world, and you can’t _keep_ him here. You can’t! You—you have to send him back, you have to let him go, he can’t _stay_ here—he—he—”

He can barely see Zimmermann, his vision’s so blurry, the tears slipping down his face as he blubbers incoherently. “He has to go back,” Eric manages to say, “or Kenny can’t come home.”

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? It’s either Parse or Kenny, and God forgive him, but it’s not even a choice for him. He’ll send Parse back with a pang of regret, but losing Kenny would be a knife to the heart.

He’s so scared. He’s been scared this _whole_ _time_. What’ll they do if they can’t switch them back?

What’ll he do if he never sees Kenny again?

As he’s breaking down into sobs, he feels a hand tentatively come to rest on his shoulder, then another hand coming to rest high on his back, patting him awkwardly.

 _What the hell are you doing?_ he wants to ask, but he’s not exactly capable of forming proper words right now. All that comes out are blubbering noises, and amidst the cloying despair and rising hysteria is a thread of sheer annoyance.

For God’s sake, he just wants to yell at Jack Zimmermann, and he would very much appreciate it if the universe would cooperate and let him _do it_. Instead, he ends up fisting a hand in Zimmermann’s shirt and bawling against his warm, unfairly muscular chest.

“Um. Bittle,” Zimmermann says, just as awkward as his attempts at comfort, “that’s not what I—we’re gonna get Kenny back. Of course we’re going to get Kenny back, that’s—that’s what I meant.”

Eric lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh.

“I don’t—I’m not really explaining myself very well, am I?” Zimmermann says, apologetic. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Eric looks up at him, incredulous. Did he honestly expect a different result after everything he’s said and done tonight?

Zimmermann winces. “Sorry. Uh. Here, just give me a moment.” He stops patting Eric’s back and leans them forward so he can grope for something on the counter behind Eric, and then he—

 _Oh, God, he’s tearing off a paper towel, isn’t he?_ Eric thinks. _Why am I not surprised?_

—he hands Eric a paper towel to dry his face with.

Eric stares at it for a second, but, in the end, he takes it. With some people, it’s the thought that counts.

(He ignores the warmth that blooms in his chest. This sort of behavior is not endearing—it’s _not_.)

Zimmermann watches, brows furrowed, as Eric dabs at his eyes, then holds his hand out imperiously for a second paper towel to blow his nose with. “Thank you,” Eric says after, stiff.

“You’re welcome,” Zimmermann replies.

They stand there for a beat of silence, Zimmermann’s arms still resting on his hips, before Eric clears his throat pointedly to prod him to move. But Zimmermann, as usual, completely misses the hint, and Eric has to push at his chest to get him to let go.

Zimmermann steps back like he’s been electrocuted. “Oh! Euh—sorry about that.”

“We established that, yes,” Eric says dryly. He gestures for Zimmermann to sit down again, and then takes his own seat. Kit and Purrs come to him as soon as he’s settled, purring to comfort him, and he pets them with a lump in his throat that he has to clear before he can speak. “Now,” he says, staring at Purrs’ left ear, “what did you mean that you’re trying to get Kenny back? That’s not—that doesn’t make any _sense_. You looked like you were trying to do the opposite of that.”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Zimmermann shake his head. “No, that’s not it. That was me coming to my senses.” He sighs, shoulders slumping, and when Eric flicks his eyes up, Zimmermann’s rubbing a tired hand over his haggard face. “You remember Kenny’s wish, right?”

How could he forget? “Yeah,” Eric says, terse. “He wanted you to be happy.”

Zimmermann corrects him, “He wanted me to be as happy as he is when he’s with you.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “I don’t see what that has to do with—”

He stops. He stares at Zimmermann. Zimmermann stares back.

“No,” Eric says, his mouth dry.

“I’ve been trying to avoid it,” Zimmermann says slowly, as if he hadn’t heard him, “but there’s really only one person who makes me feel the way Kenny feels when he’s with you.”

Eric shakes his head, mute, as if the movement could ward off what’s coming.

Jack continues regardless: “And it’s not Camilla Collins. It’s not any of my exes. It’s not my friends or teammates.” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself before he completely ruining Eric’s world.

“Stop,” Eric pleads.

“It’s Parse,” Jack finishes, staring Eric down. “The person who makes me feel that way is Parse.”

 

\---

 

These are the facts:

Jack Zimmermann is in love with Kent Parson.

Correction: he’s in love with the _wrong_ Kent Parson, the Kent Parson from a universe seven steps away. He’s in love with a Kent Parson he can’t possibly keep.    

Now, how’s that for star-crossed lovers?

 

\---

 

“You idiot,” Eric Bittle breathes out, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Oh, you absolute idiot, how are we ever going to sort ourselves out of this mess?”

“I’m sorry,” Jack Zimmermann says yet again. At least he sounds like he means it this time.

Eric shakes his head. “You do realize that this doesn’t solve the problem of _Parse’s_ wish, don’t you?”

Zimmermann frowns, by all appearances looking completely baffled, and Eric has to resist the urge to throw something at him. “I don’t understand,” Zimmermann says slowly. “I thought it kind of did?”

“How?” Eric demands through gritted teeth.

“Because he wanted to fall in love with somebody,” Zimmermann says. “And he—he could fall in love with me.” He looks down and fiddles with his fork, avoiding Eric’s gaze.

 _You moron, he’s_ already _in love with you_ , Eric thinks, resentful. _That is half of the whole damn problem._

Eric takes a deep breath and swallows the words down. “So, what? He falls in love with you, and then voilà! All our problems are solved? You send him off with a happy smile to a universe where, oh, look, he _can’t have you_.”

If anything, Zimmermann frowns harder. “I don’t think that’s going to be much of a problem.”

Eric waves his hands around. “What are you talking about? He’s going to be heartbroken! The other you is dating the other me! He’s going to be all alone!”

“That’s not what I—” Zimmermann blows out a breath, frustration written all over his face. “The point is to switch them back as soon as possible, right? This is the only way I can think of that’ll get Kenny back where he belongs. And as for Parse—he said something tonight that makes me think this’ll help him, too.”

“Oh? And what, pray tell, would that be?” Eric says, sarcastic.

Zimmermann crosses his arms. “He said that he’s not over me. That he’s never gotten over me.”

Eric feels his heart squeeze painfully, but ignores it. This is a different Parse talking about a different Zimmermann. It’s not _his_ Kenny. There’s nothing to worry about.

Zimmermann doesn’t notice his turmoil, but his next words echo Eric’s thoughts anyway: “It made me think—what could be different? Because our Kenny—”

“My Kenny,” Eric corrects.

“—your Kenny,” Zimmermann says, nodding, “he’s over me, right?”

 _Wrong_ , Eric doesn’t say. It might not be love, but it’s _something_ , what Kenny feels for Zimmermann.

“—and I know that’s mostly because of you, but Parse didn’t have you. Or he did, but as a friend, not as—you know what I mean. He was friends with you, and he was friends with me, but I think that being friends actually just made it harder to get over me. Or, well, other me.”

“Yes, well, I can see how that might be the case. Any other stunning revelations, Mr. Sherlock?” Eric says, rolling his eyes, and Zimmermann cracks a smile. It’s a good smile, small and intimate, and Eric can see why Kent fell for this man, he _can_ , but it doesn’t change a thing because he’s _not_ going to give him up. He’s not.

So he ignores the flutter in his chest and buffs his nails instead.

“I think his problem is that he didn’t have any closure. He didn’t get any opportunities to look at me and realize, ‘This guy isn’t any good for me.’ All he saw was me being in love with Bittle, and thinking that that’s what he wanted for himself.” Zimmermann shrugs, obviously a little discomfited to be analyzing Parse this way. “That’s what I think. I could be wrong.”

“You’re not,” Eric says, quiet.

Zimmermann accepts his statement, nodding. “Yeah. So. I think I could give him closure. I think, if he has this one last time with me, he could let me go. Then he can move on, just like your Kenny did.”

Eric stares.

Sitting there at the kitchen counter, he has the stunning revelation that this Jack Zimmermann has absolutely no clue what kind of effect he has on Kenny. _No clue._

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Eric says out loud. He can’t help himself, honestly.

“What?” Zimmermann says, frowning again.

Eric shakes his head; this is a problem for another day. He files the revelation away and returns to the problem at hand. “So you’re going to seduce Parse out of the goodness of your own heart, is what you’re saying.”

“Ha,” Zimmermann says, the sound wry. “No. I’m not going to pretend that this isn’t selfish as hell.” He places his elbows on the counter and leans forward. “It’s like I told you earlier, Bittle—if I have a chance with Parse, I’m going to take it. I’ll have him for as long as he wants me.”

“For as long as he’s here,” Eric clarifies.

“Yeah,” Zimmermann says, quirking his mouth in a tiny, bitter smile. “For as long as he’s here. That’s all that I’m getting, so I’m going to make the most of it.”

“…you’re not going to make any moves on my Kent,” Eric states slowly.

Zimmermann looks at him with serious eyes. “Bittle. Like I said, I want the Kent Parson who wants me back. Kenny hasn’t wanted me for years. You don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, unknowingly echoing Eric’s earlier thought.

“Right,” Eric says, ignoring the churning in his gut, ignoring the voice inside him that screams that this is it, this is the moment where he’ll lose it all, he was only ever second choice when compared to Jack Zimmermann anyway. That voice is wrong, and it’s _been_ wrong, and he can choose not to listen to it, even if he can’t stop it from popping up.

Eric folds his hands over his middle and presses in, holding himself together. He takes a deep breath. “I still don’t think this is a good idea,” he says when he’s calm enough that it comes out sounding reasonable and measured.

“Maybe not. But it’s not your call to make,” Zimmermann says, shrugging. “It’s up to Parse.”

Well, then. There goes his calm.

Eric thins his lips, something about Zimmermann’s utter confidence rubbing him the wrong way. He’s always been like this, always so convinced that he’s the one who knows Kent best.

That unthinking arrogance, that casual possessiveness goads Eric into saying: “Well, I guess you’d know best, huh? After all, Parse always gets what he wants, doesn’t he? Always thinks he has a right to things, always acts so—what’s the word you used for it? Oh, right—” Eric pauses, stares right into Zimmermann’s eyes before digging the knife in: “—entitled.”

Jack Zimmermann flinches, the way Eric Bittle flinched a year and a half ago at the Olympics, and Eric feels viciously satisfied as he pushes away from the counter and bids him good night.

 

\---

 

Eric makes his way down the hall, stopping for a long, long moment outside of Parse’s room. He lays his hand against the door, heart aching, thoughts a jumbled mess.

He doesn’t go inside.

Instead, he goes to his own room and gets in bed on Kent’s side, hugs his pillow, and pretends that nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine, Kenny’s just away for a game and he’ll be back soon, repeating the mantra silently to himself over and over. It’s the only way he’s been able to get any sleep the past few weeks.

As he falls into fitful unconsciousness, the memory of Jack Zimmermann’s blue eyes, solemn and earnest, follow him into the darkness.

 

\---

 

Here are the facts:

Eric Bittle falls in love first. He _realizes_ it first. This is true in any universe, and it is especially true in the universe where he falls head over heels for Kent Parson before he learns to love anyone else.

Here’s another fact:

In this universe, the universe seven steps away, Kent Parson starts falling in love with Eric Bittle when he’s twenty-four and a half. This is three days after he asks Jack Zimmermann to come back to him the only way he knows how:

 _Come play for the Aces_ , he says.

 _I waited for you_ , he means.

 _You can be done with this shitty team_ , he says.

 _You deserve the best, you deserve everything, and I can’t give you that but I can give you everything I’ve got to give_ , he means.

 _I miss you_ , he says.

 _I want you, I love you, please love me, too_ , he all but screams inside, but Jack’s spent the last three years learning an entirely different language. Gone are the days they could read each other with just a look.

Kent Parson rips out his heart and offers it, and Jack Zimmermann sees only the blood dripping, the violence rendered, Kent’s hand squeezed so tightly into a fist that there’s no room left for kindness in him—

And Jack Zimmermann turns him down.

Eric Bittle finds him three days later, broken heart cradled to his chest, and thoughtlessly steals it out of his hands, seeing only a raw and tender thing that needs taking care of. It happens in the space of a second, and by the time Eric’s finished with him, the opposite of damage is done:

Kent Parson’s fallen in love.

 

\---

 

Here’s another fact:

Just because he’s fallen in love with Eric doesn’t mean he’s fallen out of love with Zimms. It doesn’t mean he won’t still keep his secrets. It doesn’t mean he can open his mouth and let Zimms’ name past his lips without it feeling like thorns raking through his tongue.

So his brilliant solution is just not to mention him at all.

As a consequence, the first time Eric hears Jack Zimmermann’s name is a few months after he and Kent officially begin dating.

Eric’s spending two weeks at the Parson house, ostensibly to hang out with Carrie, but really so she can show him all of Kent’s baby pictures without him interfering, since Kent’s too busy leading the Aces through their play-off run to stop her. Mrs. Parson—she’s told him to call her Karen, but his mama would tan his hide if she heard him say that, so Mrs. Parson it is—Mrs. Parson works from ten to six, so on weekdays Carrie and Eric basically have the house to themselves.

“Good Lord, he was a scrawny twelve-year-old,” Eric marvels, poring over the photo album chronicling Kent’s time in peewee. Eric’s sitting on the floor of their living room, photos and albums and scrapbooks scattered in a semicircle all around him, and he’s already taking note of which ones he wants copies of.

“I know, right?” Carrie’s lounging on the armchair, lazily basking in the sunlight alongside Margo, the Siamese cat she got after Purrs moved in with Kent. “You should see what he looked like in bantam—he tried to grow his hair out and it was _ridiculous_.”

Eric perks up. “Oh? Which album’s that?”

Carrie points it out, but doesn’t bother to get up to hand it to him, even though she’s closer. Eric wrinkles his nose at her, but knee-walks over there anyway, careful not to crumple any of the photos stacked on the floor. He grabs the album that she indicated from the shelf, then pauses for a second to contemplate the other two beside it. He shrugs and grabs them, too. It’s not like he’s going to get _tired_ of looking at pictures of his boyfriend, especially ones from before he knew him—not the NHL player, not the multimillionaire sex symbol, but dorky eleven-year-old Kent playing a shepherd in his school Christmas play. Seven-year-old Kent in overalls holding Carrie up by the belly, feet dangling, the both of them nearly falling over. Thirteen-year-old Kent with acne and braces, Purrs as a kitten perched on his head.

Eric loves getting these pieces of Kent, the parts of him that only those closest to him get to see.

(It frightens him sometimes, how greedy he is to know every little thing about Kent, to have every part of him—he wants it all, he wants _everything_ , and he’s lost count of the times he’s had to tell himself to calm down, to pull back.

 _You’re gonna scare him off if you push too hard_ , he tells himself sternly.

But then he pushes too hard anyway, carried away by his eagerness, and before he can apologize, before he can take it back, Kent will just look at him, surprised.

Then he’ll hand every part of himself over, just like that. Like all Eric had to do to have him was _ask_.)

Eric brings his haul back over to where he was sitting, and cracks open the album at the top of the pile.

“Oh,” Carrie says all of a sudden, sharp, and he pauses, glancing up at her.

“You okay?” he asks. She’s looking at the album in his hand, and he starts to hold it out to her, wondering if it’s one that needs careful handling or something like that, but she just shakes her head.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “Just—those are from when he was up at Rimouski.”

“Oh!” Eric looks back down, delighted—Kent’s always talked fondly of his days in the Q. He wonders what he looked like then.

Eric turns to the first page, and there’re two pictures on it: one of Kent and Carrie at the border to Canada, and one of what must be his team his first year there. Eric spots him right away, sitting near the front, his cocky smirk unmistakable even at age sixteen. The whole album’s like that—pictures and pictures of Kent playing hockey, Kent hanging out with his friends, Kent laughing with all the brashness and invincibility of youth.

Most of the pictures have him with his team, of course, but as Eric goes through the album, he notices one boy cropping up more and more often, until by the end of it, it seems like he’s been permanently glued to Kent’s side, frowning beside him in every picture, blue eyes piercing beneath dark brows.

“Who’s this?” Eric asks Carrie, curious, tracing a finger over his face.

He’s looking down at the photo, not at her, so he doesn’t see the way her mouth goes thin, the way her eyes go bitter.

“That’s Zimms,” Carrie says after a moment.

“Zimms?” Eric repeats, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. He hasn’t heard Kent mention him, he doesn’t think.

“Yeah,” Carrie says, her voice heavy with a weight that Eric misses. “Jack Zimmermann. He was Kenny’s best friend.”

“Really? What’s he do now? Does he still play?” Eric asks, turning the page.

Carrie hesitates. “Yeah—he plays for the Falcs.”

“How nice! Do they still hang out, then?”

“…not really,” Carrie mutters, obviously discomfited.

Eric looks up at that, brows furrowed. “Carrie?” he says, his worry ratcheting up a notch when he sees the shadows on her face.

Carrie sighs. “C’mere,” she murmurs. “Let me tell you a little about them.”

 

\---

 

That day with the albums, Carrie gives him the abridged version of the Zimms&Parse story, and by the end of the afternoon, Eric has a somewhat decent picture of how things went between them.

(Well, a decent picture if you omit one or two crucial facts, but those come later.)

After, Eric brings Jack Zimmermann up with Kent himself. Kent hesitates at first, surprised, but just like any other time Eric asks to know something about him, Kent obliges.

So, over the years, Eric collects a list about Jack Zimmermann: He is—he _was_ Kent’s best friend. He had a somewhat unhealthy obsession with all things history-related, especially World War II. He was the person who got Kent started on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, considering that peanut butter had been banned at the Parson house due to Carrie’s allergies. He loved hockey more than anything else. He played for the Providence Falconers—just won his first Stanley Cup, actually. He and Kent didn’t really talk anymore.

And, most importantly:

Kent misses him something awful.

Eric chews on his lip when he gets to that last fact—it’s not anything that Kent’s ever _said_ , exactly, but it’s obvious if you know him. It’s in the look in his eyes, wistful and soft, as he shares stories and has Eric laughing at the things the two of them got up to. It’s in his voice when he talks about him, something aching and fond permeating every word. It’s in the way that he says Jack’s name, putting the same sort of feeling into it that he puts into Swoops’ name, or Gopher’s, or even Carrie’s. It convinces Eric that Jack must be a good person, the greatest, the best, all because Kent likes him so much. Terrible exes notwithstanding, Kent _is_ a pretty good judge of character, so Eric can’t be too far off the mark.

It makes him sad to think that Kent and Zimms aren’t on speaking terms anymore—he gets why, of course. The pressure, the distance, the anger, the blame—it’s a product of bad circumstances, worse luck, and probably a hefty dose of terrible teenage communication skills.

But should a case of misunderstandings and unresolved issues from _years_ in the past permanently ruin one of the best friendships Kenny’s ever had?

Eric thinks of what it would do to him to lose Carrie or Chowder the way Kent lost Zimms—thinks of never being able to call them up to cry over t.v. shows or to go for a late night food run. He thinks of never laughing or joking with them again, thinks of having to be in the same room as them and not being allowed to go to them, and his throat closes right up.

He can’t even _imagine_ what it must do to Kenny.   

Eric, being the good boyfriend he is, comes to the inevitable conclusion that they really need to get Kent and Zimms in the same room so they can _do_ something about this whole mess. It’s nothing that honest conversation and healthy communication can’t fix, right? Kent’s gotten so much better at that—he deserves the chance to show Zimms how he’s changed.

He’s not the same person he was then, and Eric is convinced that if Zimms got to know Kent Parson _now_ , he’d see that, and they’d be friends again.

After all, who wouldn’t love Kent Parson if they knew him?

 

\---

 

The thing is, before that fateful day with the albums, Kent _had_ mentioned Jack to Eric—just not by name. Just not in any way that Eric would be able to identify him.

The first time goes like this:

They’re in bed together, sweat cooling on their bodies, and Kent’s nuzzling at his collarbone, hands lazily petting him all over. Eric arches into the touch, sighing softly.

“You good, babe?” Kent asks. Eric hums in reply and burrows in closer.

Kent chuckles, presses a kiss to his forehead. After a few moments, he says, “This is nice.”

“Mm?”

Kent hesitates. “Just—being in bed with you. Getting to be—close, like this. Been a while since I could do that with somebody.”

Eric hides his grimace against Kent’s shoulder, his already low opinion of the majority of Kent’s exes dropping even further. “Yeah?” he says, just to say something.

“Yeah.” Kent resumes petting his hair. “Last time must’ve been—I think it was Sara?”

Figures. Sara was the only nice one in the bunch, and Bitty quite liked her, even if he _had_ been rather cold to her after Kent started dating her. “That _was_ a while back,” Eric agrees. “Anyone else before her?” he prods, not wanting to linger. He wasn’t especially proud of how he’d treated her later on, convinced as he was that she was going to be the one to permanently take Kent off the market.

Kent hums, thoughtful. “Not really? Before her, it probably would’ve been—”

He cuts himself off, going silent, and Eric looks up at him, worried. “Baby?” he says. Kent’s gone tense in his arms, and he presses in closer, wanting to comfort him.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry,” Kent says, shaking his head to clear it, his eyes still a bit distant. “I was remembering—it was my first boyfriend, I think.”

“Oh?” Eric says, cautious.

Kent smiles, crooked. “Yeah. Uh, that was when I was, what? Sixteen and a half? Seventeen?”

Young, then. Vulnerable, too, if he knows anything about Kent, and probably completely unwilling to admit it, even now. “He must’ve been nice,” Eric says, willing it to be true. “Must’ve liked you a lot, wanting to cuddle with you like this. Lord knows I would’ve been head over heels for you at that age.”

Kent barks a laugh, the sound of it bitter. “Yeah, no—I mean, he _was_ nice, but he—we didn’t really work out, in the end.”

“Oh,” Eric says.

“Yeah. We broke up after I moved to Vegas.”

“He couldn’t handle long-distance?” Eric asks, sympathetic. He personally thought Kenny was worth it, but other people disagreed, for reasons completely beyond him.

Kent goes quiet again. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “He couldn’t handle the distance.”

( _He couldn’t handle a lot of things_ , Kent Parson doesn’t say, because it’s not his place to tell. It’s his place to keep Jack Zimmermann’s secrets, and that hasn’t changed, not then, and not now.)

“Well,” Eric says after a beat, “lucky for me, then.” He presses a kiss over Kent’s heart, wraps his arms tighter around his waist. “I’m glad I’ve got you now.”

Kent closes his eyes and buries his smile in Eric’s hair. “Yeah,” he says, muffled, “me, too.”

“Let’s go to sleep,” Eric says, and they do.

That’s the first time Kent mentions Jack Zimmermann to him; it won’t be the last, not that Eric knows it.

See, the thing is, Eric spends the first two years of his relationship with Kent thinking that Mr. Jerk-Ass, Kent’s unnamed ex, and Jack Zimmermann, Kent’s former best friend, are completely separate people.

Never let it be said that Kent Parson doesn’t know how to compartmentalize.

Over the years, Eric collects a list of facts about Kent’s first boyfriend. These include, in no particular order: He was a dog person, but he liked cats well enough. He was taller than Kent. He was the first person Kent ever made love with. He drove like he was a sixty-year-old with bad arthritis.

And, finally:

He was a complete and utter jack-ass.

Okay, so that last one is less a fact and more an opinion, but Eric is prepared to stand by it. He may be a _little_ biased, but based on everything he’s heard, Kent’s first boyfriend was the origin of his belief that he was a terrible boyfriend. He was the origin of most of Kent’s abandonment issues. He was the origin of Kent’s unshakeable conviction that he _deserved_ to be treated badly, that he didn’t have a right to ask for things, that he was _too demanding_.

Look, any way Eric looks at it, Kent’s first ex was a _jerk_.

(He was also Kent’s first love, but that’s fine. Eric’s going to be his last, so it doesn’t matter, not one little bit.)

 

\---  

 

It’s Carrie who spills the beans.

“You want to _what?”_ she demands, smacking her hand on the table and knocking over her drink. She completely ignores Eric’s cry of dismay, which is uncommonly thoughtless of her, considering she just spilled her mimosa all over his guest list for Kenny’s 27 th birthday party.

“Carrie!” he scolds, handing her a few napkins and moving his papers away.

Carrie ignores him. “Dude, not the problem! What the fuck makes you think inviting Zimms is a good idea?”

“Because he used to be Kent’s best friend and he misses him?” This is an obvious solution to the problem, in Eric’s opinion. He’s been stewing on it for years, honestly, but now is the time he feels like he’s in a position to actually do something about it. He’s graduated, he’s moved in with Kent, they’ve all but established that they’re going to be it for each other—it’s the perfect time to try and help Kent with some of his old wounds.

Carrie apparently doesn’t agree. She waves her hands in exasperation, a habit she picked up from him, and states, “He’s also his fucking _ex_ , dude, or have you forgotten that!”

Eric pauses where he’s mopping up the mess. “…excuse me?”

Carrie goes pale. “Oh, shit, he still hasn’t told you, has he?” She puts her hands over her face, groaning. “Oh, my God, it’s been _two_ _years_ , how has he not told you yet?”

 _“Told me what._ ”

Carrie puts her hands down and stares at him. She tells him.

 

\---

 

“How could you not tell me?” Eric demands.

“What the hell was there to say?” Kent shouts, throwing a hand up in exasperation, his face splotchy and red, a clear sign that he’s upset. Eric doesn’t particularly care right now, though, because he’s plenty upset himself.

“Good golly, I don’t know, maybe that _Jack Zimmermann_ is your ex-boyfriend?!” Eric shouts back.

Kent’s face goes thunderous. “I’m not going to fucking _out_ him.”

Eric scoffs. “And that excuse would have made sense two _years_ ago, when we’d just started fucking! Sweet Jesus—I moved across the _country_ for you! You can’t think I’m the kind of person who’d take this to the press _now_ , Kenny!”

“Of course I don’t! That’s not—it’s not—it’s in the past, so why would it have mattered?” Kent runs a hand violently through his hair. “It’s not like I’ve told you all the names of the people I’ve slept with, and you don’t care about that, so why do you care about this?”

“Because it’s _Jack Zimmermann!”_ Eric yells, feeling frustration welling up in him. This is shaping up to be worst argument he’s had with Kent thus far, and that _includes_ the time Kent paid for all of Eric’s medical fees without bothering to tell him.

“Why does that _matter?”_ Kent repeats, pacing the length of their living room; just two months ago, they’d painted it to match the shade of Kent’s eyes when he laughed. It doesn’t match now, when his eyes are a flat and muddled gray, glaring daggers at Eric.

Eric glares right back, not giving an inch. “Because _he_ matters to you, Kenny! That’s what I’m upset about! He’s such an important part of your life, and I didn’t have a clue about what he actually meant to you!”

And that’s what _really_ gets to him—that Kent didn’t trust him with this. That _Eric_ wasn’t important enough to tell the truth to, that protecting his terrible ex-boyfriend mattered more than being honest with the love of his life.

Eric doesn’t know how to fix this. Worse, he’s not sure he wants to. It’s not as if he’s the one in the wrong, so why is _he_ the one getting yelled at? He opens his mouth to argue some more, but Kent gets there first, shouting, “Well, it’s not like _I_ matter to _him_ , so can’t we just drop this?”

His voice breaks on the first half of that sentence, and Eric pauses, looking closer at him. Kent’s eyes are red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears, and his fists clenched at his side are trembling. He’s not just angry—he’s _hurting_ , and no matter how angry Eric is at him, he can’t ignore Kent when he’s hurting.

“Baby,” he says, sighing. He grabs one of the tissue boxes off the coffee table and waves it at Kent until he takes it. “Sit down,” Eric instructs.

Kent, true to form, stays stubbornly standing. Eric sits down on the couch and pats the cushion next to him; also true to form, instead of Kent sitting down, Kit comes out of nowhere to jump up and meow at him.

Eric and Kent look at the cat for a beat, then they look at each other. They burst into laughter. It lasts longer than it should, honestly, mostly due to all the pent-up tension finally finding an outlet, but by the end of it, Kent’s lying down on the couch, his face hidden against Eric’s thigh.

“Baby,” Eric tries again, “we gotta talk about this.”

“Do we have to?” Kent says, petulant.

Eric tugs on his hair. “ _Yes_ , honey.” He pauses, before continuing, the hurt obvious in his voice, “Why didn’t you just _tell_ me?”

Kent shakes his head. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” Kent says, his voice small. “It’s just that—I fucked up with Zimms so bad, Eric. You don’t even know—you don’t—I don’t _want_ you to know. I don’t want you to know how bad I was, babe, you won’t—you won’t _want_ me anymore if you know.”

“Kenny,” Eric says sternly, tugging at his hair again. Kent still doesn’t look at him. “That’s not true. You know I would _never_ —”

“You would.”

Eric _tsks_ in exasperation. “Kent Virgil Parson, you are not the boss of me, and I would appreciate it if you would stop telling me what to do.”

Kent’s blue eyes peek up at him. “Eric—”

“I love you,” Eric says firmly. “And that’s not going to change, no matter what. I might get angry at you. I might get upset with you. I might even want to shake you until some sense gets knocked into that thick skull of yours, but I promise that even then I won’t stop loving you.” He pushes Kent’s hair back off his forehead, fingers tracing gently down the side of his face.

Kent leans into the touch. “You promise?” he asks, plaintive.

“Yes,” Eric says, no hesitation at all.

Kent sighs, a long, shaky exhale. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’ll tell you about Zimms.”  

 

\---

 

Alright. So. Jack Zimmermann and Kent’s first love are one and the same person.

It takes a while for Eric to reconcile the two, especially considering the _vastly_ different impressions he has of them both, but.

But.

But he still comes to the same conclusion that prompted him to try and reunite Zimmermann and Kent in the first place:

Kent misses Jack Zimmermann. Kent wants to make amends. Kent deserves the chance to try and be his friend again.

Eric swallows down his reservations and his wounded pride and starts looking for ways to make that happen.

It proves surprisingly difficult—the birthday party’s out, Kent’s games against the Falcs coincide with Eric’s competitions, Carrie doesn’t even have Jack’s number anymore, and then there’s the Olympics—

Eric blinks, and looks up Team Canada’s ice hockey roster.

The Olympics. Huh.

Eric grins to himself. Perfect.

 

\---

 

Fast-forward to Pyeongchang 2018:

A quarter before 7 p.m., there’s a quiet tap on Eric’s door. He opens it to find Kent on the other side, leaning against the doorjamb and wearing a teasing smirk. “Hey, handsome,” he says. “Mind if I come in?”

Eric rolls his eyes and pulls his boyfriend inside, sticking his head out after and making sure the hallway’s clear before closing the door. “Honey, I thought you were—mmph.” Eric’s words are cut off by Kent’s mouth as Kent pushes him up against the door and kisses him, thorough and insistent. Eric moans quietly and pushes his hands into Kent’s hair, tugging him closer.

He may or may not lose most of an hour that way.

“I missed you,” Kent whispers against his neck when they finally take a break, their bodies tucked together on Eric’s single, and Eric can’t help but laugh.

“Sugar, we saw each other two weeks ago,” he points out. The two of them had met up at the house to pack for the Olympics, settle the cats with Maggie and Swoops, etc., etc., and then it was back to Colorado and the U.S. Men’s National Hockey Team for Kent, and off to California and some last-minute training for Eric.

“Yeah. Like I said, I missed you.” Kent nuzzles the underside of his jaw, sucking insistently, and Eric pinches his side.

“Don’t you dare. Irina’s going to kill me if I show up to the team warm-ups with a hickey,” he warns.

Kent freezes, a sure sign of guilt. “Um.”

“Oh, you _didn’t!”_ Eric sits up, ignoring Kent’s puppy-dog eyes. Oh, God, he definitely did, didn’t he? Eric pushes at his shoulders. “Get off, you big lug, I have to see the damage.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Kent protests, but Eric’s already out of the bed and in the bathroom before Kent can finish his sentence. Not a difficult feat, considering the dorm-style dimensions of his room, but Eric’s not going to complain. It’s the _Olympics_. (Besides, his room at Sochi was even smaller.)

He flicks on the lights and tilts his chin up—and there it is, right underneath his jaw: a shadow of a bruise.

“ _Kenny,”_ he says, exasperated, poking at it. His boyfriend slinks guiltily into the bathroom and winds his arms around Eric’s waist, burying his face against his shoulder and the nape of his neck so only one eye peeks out, meeting Eric’s gaze sheepishly in the mirror.

“It’s not that bad,” Kent repeats, mumbling the words. “The concealer’ll cover it, easy.”

Well, yes, but it’s the principle of the thing. Eric sighs. “You know you’re not supposed to be leaving marks on me before a competition.”

“Sorry,” Kent says, cuddling even closer. “I just missed you.”

Eric struggles to hold onto his annoyance for a few more moments, then gives it up for a lost cause. He sighs again, the sound softer this time, and leans back against Kent’s chest. “I know, sugar,” he murmurs, meeting Kent’s sea-green eyes in the mirror. “I missed you, too.”

Kent hides his smile against his shoulder.

 

\---

 

“So, where’s your roommate?” Kent asks later while they’re eating take-out.

Eric swallows his mouthful of galbi. “Leo? He’s out sightseeing with his rinkmates.” He doesn’t know his fellow U.S. teammate very well, since Leo trains in Detroit with Celestino Cialdini, but he seems nice enough. Inez actually knows him better from their days together in Juniors, and Eric and Woo Jin have speculated that there’s a little something going on there, not that they’ve had much time to gossip lately. Woo Jin’s been especially stressed in the lead-up to the Olympics; Eric can’t really imagine the pressure he’s under, representing South Korea on their own turf, poor thing.

“Oh, that’s cool. How long will he be out?” Kent asks, fiddling with his chopsticks.

Eric shoots a narrow-eyed glance at him. He knows where this is going, and isn’t impressed. “Kent. I’m not sexiling my roommate for the entire Olympics.”

“It wouldn’t be for the _entire_ Olympics.” Kent grins at him and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Eric shakes his head, smiling a little despite himself. “Kenny—”

“Come on, we’ve got three weeks in the _same city_ during both our seasons. You’re telling me we shouldn’t make the most of it?” Kent argues, pointing his chopsticks at him.

Eric rolls his eyes. Only Kent Parson would treat the Olympics like his own personal vacation. “Honey, I don’t know about you, but my schedule’s pretty packed.” The team event started the day after the opening ceremony with the men’s short program, even though he wouldn’t be skating it. That was Leo’s job, but Eric was still supposed to be there for team morale, and it would be a good opportunity to size up the competition for the individual events.

“Still.” Kent pushes some noodles around, shrugging. “There’s a couple things I wanna try.”

Eric raises a brow, amused. “Oh, really? Not sure I brought the right equipment for that sort of thing.”

Kent laughs. “Not like that, you perv!” He sticks his tongue out at Eric, who promptly retaliates by flicking a piece of green onion at him. As far as deterrents go, it doesn’t really work, since Kent just peels it off his face and sticks it in his mouth. “We’re not gonna spend _all_ our free time in bed, babe,” he says around the tip of his forefinger. “C’mon, give me some credit. You know I’m classier than that.”

“Uh-huh,” Eric says, eyeing the way he’s sucking the sauce suggestively off his finger. “You tell yourself that, sugar.”

Kent grins, and Eric reaches for his phone and texts Leo to tell him it’s not a problem at all, please feel free to take as much time as he’d like out and about. He hits send and tosses the phone aside.

From there, it’s easy to slide into Kent’s lap. After all, Kent was already reaching for him.

 

\---

 

So, Eric’s 100% sure that Leo’s guessed that he and Kent are a little more than ‘very good friends,’ but from everything Inez has said, he seems a nice guy. When he gets back to their shared room, he merely gives Kent a nod and swipes the extra fortune cookie off the coffee table.

Eric still waits for him to duck into the restroom before he shoos Kent out the door, ignoring his boyfriend’s complaints and pressing a quick goodbye kiss to the corner of Kent’s mouth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow after practice, okay?” he promises.

Kent’s pout doesn’t abate in the slightest, but Eric has practice at resisting his puppy-dog eyes and shuts the door firmly in his face.

He waits until Kent’s footsteps fade away, then leans his forehead against the door, sighing. He jumps nearly a foot in the air right after, though, when Leo clears his throat behind him.

“Good Lord!” Eric yelps, turning around and banging his elbow against the door.

“Whoa, sorry.” Leo raises his hands, smiling apologetically. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Eric rubs the heel of his hand over his too-fast heartbeat. “I’m sure,” he says.

Leo smiles again, still a bit tense, and Eric squints at him a little more closely. Leo coughs under the scrutiny. “Uh. So. I was thinking we could maybe, um, discuss room arrangements? Like, scheduling-wise.”

Eric blinks. What a stroke of luck. “Oh! Yes! That’d be—well, that’d be great, actually, thank you—lemme just get my phone, I’ve got this nifty app that makes everything so much easier to plan—” Eric digs his phone out from where it fell between the bed and the dresser, then makes his way to where Leo’s sitting cross-legged on the other bed. “So! Let’s see here—our practice times match up pretty closely, I know, but are there any events you wanna go see?”  

Leo rubs the back of his head. “Guang Hong and I wanted to catch some of the snowboarders, and he’s got friends in speed-skating.” He paused. “I was also thinking—I dunno, I wanted to get to the rink a little earlier, show some support for the other skaters.”

Eric nods. “How nice of you! You want the restroom first in the morning?” He studiously doesn’t mention how Inez’s practices are scheduled right before theirs.

“Ah, yeah, that’d be good.” Leo scratches at his nose, faintly blushing.

Eric hides a smile. “Good, ’cause I hate getting up early.”

Leo laughs at that, relaxing some. “So do I, usually—but, eh, some things are worth it,” he says.

“That remains to be seen,” Eric says dryly, thinking of early morning practices with Katya. He’ll have to get used to it, though—thanks to the time difference, the figure skating events are all scheduled in the morning to accommodate broadcasting times on the other side of the globe. Bless the networks’ little hearts, honestly.

“Mm.” Leo shrugs, then glances down at his fingernails. “So. I’m guessing you’ll be out in the evenings often, keeping up with the hockey games?”

“Um. Yeah.” Eric doesn’t blush—he _doesn’t_. “I’m—well, you know. A big fan. And I’m pretty good friends with some of the guys on the team. Obviously.”

Oh, look, he’s babbling.

 _Sweet baby Jesus, pull yourself together, Bittle_ , he tells himself sternly.

It’s Leo’s turn to hide a smile. “Right. Obviously.” He looks speculatively at Eric, and Eric braces himself for the worst.

He needn’t have worried. “So, how soon is too soon to ask Parson for an autograph?” Leo asks, grinning slightly.

Eric smiles back, relieved. “Honestly? It’s never too soon, especially since he’ll probably want yours, too.”

Leo raises his brows, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Eric leans forward conspiratorially. “His mom’s a _huge_ figure skating fan.”

“Must be a point in your favor, then,” Leo says, teasing, before his eyes widen. “Uh. I mean, since you’re such good friends with her son and all, she must be happy that she knows an insider—”

Eric laughs, losing the last of his tension. Leo’s more flustered than he is at this point. “Yeah, pretty much. It drives Kent nuts since I’m always bribing her with photos and things—oh! That reminds me, I really gotta get a photo with the rest of Team USA, she’ll be so pleased—”

He and Leo spend the rest of the evening in a combination of small talk and shop talk, evaluating Team USA’s chances at making podium and sharing random facts about sightseeing things they want to get done, or funny stories about their many mutual acquaintances. This was figure skating, after all—everybody knew everybody else, if only through a ‘didn’t your coach used to coach her choreographer?’ sort of way.

Eventually, of course, they come back around to their original purpose, and hash out a schedule that suits them both.

They shake hands to seal the deal.

 

\---

 

“Okay, so I’ve got Sundays and Mondays, and he’s got Thursdays and Fridays, and we both agreed to flip a coin for who gets the first Saturday, trading off after that,” Eric tells Kent as they walk around downtown Gangneung. Thank God all the ice events are in one place, honestly.

Kent hums, taking a bite out of one of the stuffed pancakes they bought off a street vendor. They were called hotteok, if Eric recalled correctly. He’d have to ask Woo Jin again about the pronunciation—maybe talking about food would help calm his friend down some.

“What about Tuesdays and Wednesdays?” Kent asks.

Eric shrugs. If worst came to worst, he could probably sneak into Kent’s room if he had to. They’d both prefer to avoid that, considering Kent shared the floor with some of the less… _accepting_ members of USA’s Men’s Hockey Team, but Eric was good at being careful.

Out loud, he answers, “We both agreed that having at least two nights a week to ourselves without worrying about guests or anybody else dropping by would be good for our peace of mind.”

Kent sends him an amused glance. “Right. Sure. Peace of mind. As if you aren’t already turning your room into the unofficial gathering place for your rink and their assorted friends-slash-acquaintances.”

Eric pokes him in the side. “I am _not_.” He pauses. “Besides, we agreed it would be better if we all met up in Woo Jin’s room.”

“Ah.” Kent winces knowingly. “Is he still…?”

“Nervous as a cat on a tin roof? Pretty much. Inez is hoping all the people will help distract him.” Eric stops outside a small patisserie, enamored by their display window—Olympic-themed, of course, with a group of cupcakes arranged in a whimsical depiction of the snow-covered slopes.

“You want to head in?” Kent asks, knocking shoulders with him gently.

“…we shouldn’t.” Irina was one of that rare breed of figure skating coaches who actually _encouraged_ their charges to eat, and eat well, but even Eric had to admit that cream-stuffed pastries were currently _not_ on his vegetable-heavy, protein-laden, nutritiously-dense-carbs-only diet plan.

Kent, as usual, takes that as encouragement and tugs him into the store.

As the shop’s door opens with a quiet ring, Eric reminds himself to resist temptation, and resolves to buy only three things—or should he make it five? How many opportunities would he have to visit South Korea anyway? Enjoying the baked goods of a country he was new to was not a chance to be missed.

Eric nods to himself. He should make it five things.

Then he actually peruses the shop.

 _Okay, no more than_ seven _things_ , he tells himself firmly after catching sight of some of the prettier desserts they had behind the counter.

Meanwhile, Kent is hanging back and watching him, grinning in that self-satisfied way of his. He always did love to spoil him. Though possibly it was because he knew he’d get to eat most of what Eric would end up buying—Eric was not above vicariously enjoying sweets through his muscled hunk of a boyfriend’s bottomless stomach. If _he_ couldn’t eat pastries, watching Kent eat them (and stealing sugar-tinged kisses after) was the next best thing.

After making his selections, he points them out to the girl behind the counter, smiling and using his limited Korean to thank her. As she bags them up, Eric pulls out his wallet to pay, but is forestalled when Kent drapes his forearm over his shoulder, credit card already in hand.

“Kent,” he says warningly, still smiling politely at the cashier while attempting to knock Kent’s hand out of the way, “it’s my turn to pay.”

“Nope! My turn,” Kent says, and flashes his own charming smile at the cashier, who of course falls for it and takes the card he’s waving at her. Eric doesn’t blame her; the head tilt combined with that crooked grin is a bit much for anyone to resist.

They exit the shop, bags in hand.

“And here I thought you were only going to buy three things. How many is this?” Kent opens his and counts. “There’re five in mine, so you bought, what? Ten in total?” he says, eyeing Eric’s bag.  

Eleven, but he doesn’t need to know that right now. Besides, that’s not the point. “Kenny,” Eric says, exasperated, “you have to stop paying for everything—you _already_ paid for brunch, and for the street food, and now for this—”

“But why shouldn’t I?” Kent slings an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close.

Eric makes a face. “Because we’re trying to pass for something other than a couple? It’s not very bro-like behavior if you’re trying to act like my sugar daddy, hon.” He looks pointedly at Kent’s arm.

Kent barks a laugh. “I wish. But, seriously, who cares? It’s not like we’re back home—we look just like any other Olympic tourists here, so we might as well take advantage.”

Of course, that’s right when a passing group of high schoolers gasp and recognize Eric.

Eric shoots Kent an ‘I told you so’ look in between taking a few selfies and signing some autographs—one of the girls even has a photo of him, though it’s more accurate to say that it’s a photo of Woo Jin, and he just happens to be in it.

After he exchanges polite smiles and bows of farewell with the group, he turns around and puts his hands on his hips, raising a pointed brow at his sheepish boyfriend. “You were saying?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be a bit more careful.” Kent moves his bag between them and shoves his hands in his pockets, which is pretty much the only way he ever manages to keep them to himself.   

Eric ignores the slight pang resulting from the manufactured distance. They’ve got practice at this, and it’s best that they stay cautious.

( _For now, at least_ , Eric thinks to himself.)

“I’ll make it up to you when we get back to my place,” Eric promises him, and Kent’s smile goes soft for a moment before widening.

“I love the Olympics,” Kent says, heartfelt, and shakes his head. “Three weeks with you—Jesus, what a gift. Best vacation ever.”

“Only you,” Eric says again, fond, in their now-familiar exchange.

“Hey, what’s not to love?” Kent shrugs, then pauses. “By the way, have I mentioned recently how hot it gets me when people recognize you and completely ignore me? Like, you are an internationally known athlete, famous the world over, jet-setting through the continents, and I, on the other hand, am just your lowly boytoy.”

Eric snorts. “As if. Try saying that the next time we go to Canada.”

Kent rolls his eyes. “C’mon, babe, since when does Canada count as jet-setting?”

“Since we use jets to visit it?” Eric points out.

“Always gotta bring logic into it, huh?”

“Of course, honey.”

 

\---

 

Contrary to Kent’s hopes, they barely see each other the next few days—in between the opening ceremonies, the practices, the team events for figure skating, and the various interviews and media appearances he’s got scheduled, Eric barely has time to breathe, let alone sightsee with his boyfriend.

Team USA takes silver, though, so it’s not like the time was _completely_ wasted.

“Holy fuck, Eric, you look so hot like this,” Kent says, staring up at him with worshipful eyes.

“Yeah?” Eric says huskily, pushing Kent’s cowlick back. He’s sitting astride Kent’s hips, naked as the day he was born except for the medal hung around his neck. It’s not actually the most comfortable thing to be doing, since he’s already accidentally smacked Kent in the face with it a few times, but Kent had asked. Begged, really, and Eric’s always been bad at saying no to that.

(Besides, it’s not as if Kenny really minds the pain.)

“Uh-huh,” Kent murmurs, slack-mouthed, panting, eyes glazed, hands insistent as he tugs Eric down. “So hot, so sexy, _fuck_ , watching you on the ice is so—” He breaks off into a muffled moan, shuddering as Eric grinds against him. “Babe, please, I wanna—”

“Yeah, honey, sure,” Eric says, threading a hand through his hair and tugging. “Whatever you want. Anything you want.”

Kent huffs a laugh, breathless, flushed beautifully red, and, _oh_ , Eric loves his boy. “That’s my line.” He flips them over, nuzzling at Eric’s neck. “You’re the winner here, baby— _you_ get anything you want.” He kisses a line down to his chest, following the ribbon of the medal. “Everything you want.” He closes his teeth around one of Eric’s nipples, tugging gently, just the way he likes.

Eric squirms against him, feeling the pleasure going straight to his head like so many champagne bubbles. “Kenny,” he pleads.

“I wanna give you everything,” Kent breathes against his skin, mouth trailing lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his belly, his hips. He rubs his cheek against Eric’s dick, all wide-eyed sincerity when Eric looks down at him, his pupils dark as Kent tells him earnestly, “You’re a _winner_ , Eric. You _earned_ it. You _deserve_ it.”

As if to punctuate his words, Kent turns his head slightly and places a small kiss against the tip of Eric’s cock, never breaking his gaze.        

Eric does, though, flinging his head back and screwing his eyes shut against the sudden punch of lust, low in his gut. He can’t help himself, keening, “Oh, God, _Kenny_ —” 

Kent responds by swallowing him down, and Eric’s already tenuous hold on his thoughts is cut completely loose.

One of Kent’s hands rubs up and down along the outside of his thigh, the other grasping one of his knees and prying them gently apart to make room for himself. Eric spreads his legs for him, shameless, and cants his hips up higher, hooks his thighs over Kent’s shoulders possessively, encouraging him to settle against him, where he belongs. Eric feels feverish, desperate, wants every line of his body, every arch of his limbs, every movement he makes to tell Kent that it’s him, it’s him, he wants him, him, _him_ —oh, God, right now—always—any way he can have him—Kenny, please, _Kenny_ —

He’s lost all his words, though, can’t think of how to say it other than chanting Kent’s name over and over, other than grasping a fistful of golden hair and holding fast, holding tight, as Kent takes him apart.  

Eric’s a trembling mess by the time Kent’s done with him. “Kenny, enough,” he whines, and tugs a little harder when Kent’s only response is to hum around his softening dick, his nose still buried in Eric’s pubic hair as he raises a single inquisitive brow.

Eric laughs a little despite himself. “Enough—come here, baby.” He clumsily pets over Kent’s hair, all coordination and grace having leaked out of his ears alongside his brain, leaving only a gooey mess of feelings and affection behind. “I wanna touch you,” he pleads, raw and honest.

At that, Kent lets him slip out of his mouth and clambers up obediently, proceeding to accept Eric’s sloppy kisses and words of praise with an air of deep satisfaction. Then it’s his turn to tremble and whine when Eric gets a hand around his cock, jerking him off quickly, with Eric’s other hand squeezing the back of his neck in a proprietary hold, keeping him close as Eric licks into his mouth.

Soon enough, Kent pries his face away, gasping. “Wait— _mmph_ —wait, Eric, you gotta—you gotta take the medal off first, you gotta—I’m gonna—I can’t get _come_ on your medal, baby, please—”

Eric blinks, then bursts into laughter, and Kent laughs with him, grinning. With his free hand, Eric slips the medal over his head and tosses it onto the nightstand—or, well. He _tries_. It slides across the surface and falls to the floor with a quiet thud instead, which just sends them into peals of more laughter.

“Desecration! Blasphemy!” Kent says between gasping snorts. “How dare you treat this, this _sacred_ medal like a—like a cheap souvenir, oh, my _God_.”

“Oh, shut up, you were the one who was going to get semen on it,” Eric says. He has to admit that his attempts at admonishment are undercut by the fact that he can’t stop giggling, though.

“Well, _you_ were the one who wore it to bed,” Kent shoots back.

Eric gasps, affronted. “ _You_ asked me to, you uncouth barbarian!” He shoves playfully at Kent’s shoulder. Kent goes down easily, but hooks an arm around his waist so that Eric goes with him. Eric ends up plastered against his side, trailing a gentle hand up and down his chest. “I love you, sweetheart,” he says, smiling, but his eyes are utterly serious.

Kent looks up at him. “Me, too,” he says, cupping his cheek.

Eric scoots forward to kiss him, lets his hand trail down, swallows Kent’s resulting moans, and picks up right where they left off.

 

\---

 

“Mm. Best Olympics ever,” Kent proclaims afterwards, crossing his arms behind his head. “10/10, would recommend, and, as my dick says, much wow.”

Eric smacks a pillow over his face.

 

\---

 

Honestly, though, it kind of _is_ the best Olympics.

Last time, he’d been a ball of stress and nerves, barely able to eat or sleep, devastated early on by a fall in the men’s short program for the team event that he didn’t manage to shake off in time for the individual competition. He went home with a .17 point difference between himself and silver, and he couldn’t even really complain, because, goodness, at least he made podium at his first Olympics, right? All his frustration, his feelings of inadequacy—who would he have vented to who wouldn’t have told him to look at the bright side?

Kent would’ve understood—Kent, who took a fourth-place finish as Team USA’s captain, and smiled for the cameras after and promised to get ’em next time with dead serious eyes.

But he didn’t really know Kent then—not enough to seek him out after the games he attended, not enough to approach him in the dining halls.

He knows Kent now. And he knows Inez, and Woo Jin, and he’s even friendly with Leo and the rest of Team USA. He’s a valued athlete now, a veteran, a leader with experience, and when he touches down on the ice he skates with focus and confidence and the desire to win. He practices and competes the mornings, and he catches snowboarding events with his friends in the afternoon, and he cheers his boyfriend on at his games in the evening.   

And he brings home a silver in men’s singles, a 3-point difference between himself and gold, and when he goes to his room doesn’t have to hide his tears, because Kent doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms and lets him come home.

Kent, who _understands_.

 

\---

 

The thing is, Eric understands Kent, too.

So he knows what it means when they go walking through the Olympic village, and Kent tenses whenever he catches sight of any dark-haired man of a certain build in Canada’s colors. He knows what it means that Kent visits Hucky’s room on Norway’s floor, but not Viney’s, even though his building’s closer. He knows what it means when Kent was relieved when they announced the blocks, and the U.S. wouldn’t have to face a certain team until the semifinals at the earliest.

Eric knows what it means, and he intends to do something about it.

So, alongside his professional goals of medaling at his second Olympics, he has a more personal goal, too:

Get Jack Zimmermann in the same room as Kent Parson, and convince the former to be friends with the latter.

Easy as pie.

At this point, Eric’s fairly confident he can pull it off. It can’t be harder than landing a quad in competition, after all.

Eric fiddles with his hair one last time and nods at himself in the mirror, then exits the bathroom. “I’m heading out to the hockey centre,” he calls out as he heads for the door.

“Cool! Say hi to Parson for me!” yells Leo.

Eric doesn’t bother to correct him.

 

\---

 

These are the facts:

In every universe, just before they meet, Jack Zimmermann takes one look at Eric Bittle and thinks, _What’s he doing here?_

In one universe, the one where they meet at Samwell, the one where he falls in love first but realizes it second, Jack Zimmermann thinks these words with a combination of sour suspicion, mild annoyance, and not a small amount of incredulity. Jack has a plan, after all, and that plan does _not_ involve getting side-tracked by ‘get-to-know-you’ pies, whatever the hell those might be.

In a universe seven steps away, the one where Jack meets Eric and makes an enemy of him for reasons altogether more complicated than just hockey, Jack Zimmermann thinks these words with a combination of pleasant surprise, mild recognition, and not a small amount of physical attraction.     

You see, Jack recognizes Eric. He’s never even heard him speak in person, but still. He knows the shape of that nose in profile, the curve of that smile, and has done since…a few years ago, now? Ever since his rookie year, so, yes. Must be.

Must be.

 

\---

 

Flashback to November 2015:

At a game against the Avs, in between shifts, Guy had snorted and nudged him. “Look at that kid up on the left. The hell is he doing wearing _Sharks_ gear?”

Jack glanced in the same direction and saw the guy he was talking about: Asian, bright-eyed, hands gesturing in excitement and nearly hitting the person next to him. Actually, within the minute, he _did_ hit the person next to him, smacking his shoulder repeatedly as he pointed out a play on the ice. His companion took it in stride, nodding calmly, and Jack would’ve stopped paying attention at that point, except.

Except the guy smiled, quick and warm and blinding, and Jack found himself lingering just a little longer on his face. Just a little. 

(Oh, Jack Zimmermann. In every universe, whether you want to or not, you _always_ notice Eric Bittle. You can’t help it.) 

 

\---

 

From then on, Jack would scan the crowds at Denver for him, the guy he mentally dubbed ‘the cute Avs fan.’ He wouldn’t always spot him, but when he did, he’d be sitting near the glass, always accompanied by his Sharks friend, always bundled up in colorful scarves and gloves, always smiling sunnily.

He hadn’t seen him at Denver this past year, but to his surprise, Jack _did_ catch him on his t.v. screen. His familiar smile was plastered underneath a ribbon of obnoxiously red, white, and blue text that declared him to be one of Team USA’s figure skaters, and Jack finally learned his name:

Eric Bittle.

Apparently, thanks to the spike in interest in figure skating during every Winter Olympics, the U.S. had decided to make Bittle one of the faces of the team, bombarding the general public with video clips and interviews of him. So in the lead-up to February, Jack managed to learn a few other things about him: he was the reigning U.S. champ. He’d won gold at the world figure skating thing and a few other impressive-sounding competitions. He was making a comeback from a knee injury he suffered last year. He was a favorite to at least medal this year at Pyeongchang.

Also: he baked pies for a hobby. He was from Georgia, and had the accent to prove it. His charity of choice involved combating food deserts, feeding the homeless, and making sure schoolkids had one free nutritious meal a day. He was twenty-two going on twenty-three. He ‘secretly’ wanted to adopt thirty cats when he retired. He wrinkled his nose when he laughed.

And every time they finished showing his face, Jack knew to turn the t.v. off, because from there the fluff pieces would segue into hockey, and Team USA’s captain had been Kent Parson for five years running. So that was something to be grateful to Bittle for:

Warning, Kent Parson sighting imminent.

(In hindsight, Jack really should’ve paid better attention to the signs.)

So, Jack knows that Bittle is an Olympian. Logically, that means he’d be walking around Gangneung, competing. Somehow, though, he hadn’t connected that thought to seeing Bittle here, at the Olympic village, Team USA jacket draped on his shoulders as he chats amiably with Peter Zheng, one of his rival skaters for Canada. They’re at the elevators, waiting for one to take them up; Jack comes in, and sees that jawline, sees the flash of that smile, and he thinks, pleasantly surprised, _What are you doing here?_

Like an idiot, he raises his hand to say hello—then he remembers that he’s never even met the guy, much less talked to him before, and he lowers his hand in a hurry.

Thankfully, the elevator doors open, and Bittle and Zheng walk in, still chatting. Neither of them notice him or his ill-advised attempt to gain their attention, but as they reach the back of the elevator, Bittle turns his head forward, laughing.

He meets Jack’s eyes.

A jolt goes through Jack, a brush of lightning low in his gut, and he stills, held in place by some unknown force.

In the same moment, a look of surprise and recognition steals over Bittle’s face. His eyes widen. He opens his mouth. He closes it. His hand comes up, palm pressed over his cheek before he pulls it away in a quick gesture, and waves. At Jack.

He waves at Jack.

 _Oh_ , Jack thinks, _he knows me._

Jack stands there, shocked, as the elevator doors begin to close, but some vestigial instinct must take over, because somehow he manages to raise his hand to shoulder level. He waves back, just a little.

Bittle sees the awkward greeting, his lips turning up ever-so-slightly. The elevator doors close on his smile.

Jack is left to stand there, feeling…restless. Off-balance. Almost—nervous? But that’s not quite the word for it, either—  

“Hey,” Pelletier says, clapping him on the shoulder and bringing him out of his thoughts, “spacing out there, bud?”

“Ah, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head. “Got lost there for a bit. I was planning to head to the cafeteria, actually—”

“Great!” Pelletier booms. “I’ll join you.”

Jack nods, and lets his teammate steer him away. Halfway through lunch, the word finally comes to him, the word for the feeling he felt:

Anticipation. He felt anticipation. 

That was three days after the opening ceremony.

 

\---

 

He sees Bittle around, most often in the company of other skaters, but Jack spies him now and then, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans, or chatting with reporters and smiling for the cameras. He doesn’t really have time to linger and gawk, but the glimpses he steals help him build a better picture of Bittle in his head.

The attention rests easy on his shoulders, his posture always relaxed, confident, and Jack admires him for his cheerful manner, for his aura of effortless grace under fire. It’s the Olympics, and the pressure must be rising, but Jack never sees it on Bittle’s face, not once.

It’s the Olympics, and for all his own nerves and focus and dedication to hockey, when Jack _does_ manage to pay attention to something else, it’s usually Bittle.

He doesn’t let himself think about why.

 

\---

 

Canada wins their first game against Switzerland, loses the second against the Czech Republic, wins the third against South Korea and clinches their spot in the quarterfinals. Jack gets a goal and an assist in the first, two assists in the second, and two goals in the third.

Their chances are good; it’s a good team; he’s not worried.

Two of those things are true.

It’s in this utterly calm state of mind that Jack exits the locker rooms to find Bittle waiting in the hallway.

It’s not _just_ Bittle, of course—there are a whole slew of coaches, staff, Olympic officials, press, etc., etc., but there he is, leaning against the wall in the back, scrolling through his phone with the air of a man idly waiting.

Jack’s first highly embarrassing thought is that Eric is waiting for _him_. He doesn’t move towards him, thankfully, squashing the impulse with ruthless logic. Bittle is a hockey fan. Jack plays hockey. Ergo, Bittle knows who he is. Just because Bittle recognizes him doesn’t mean he wants to talk to him.

His natural reticence is rewarded, because one of his teammates gives a whoop and heads toward him. “Eric! Didn’t expect to see you here!” Levine yells.

Bittle beams at him, his grin wide and infectious. The set of his shoulders is loose and open, and he returns Levine’s crushing embrace with ebullient warmth. “Well, I had to drop by and see you _one_ of these days, Viney,” he says, his voice full of affection. “Congrats on making play-offs.”

“Bro, what the fuck are you saying? Congrats to _you_ , dude—you got a fucking silver medal! That’s fucking awesome!” Jack can’t really make out Levine’s face since his back is turned, but Bittle’s expression morphs immediately into one of well-earned pride and genuine joy. Jack wonders how they know each other; he hasn’t talked to Levine much, but he knows he plays for Vegas, and did a stint in Tampa Bay before that. Bittle’s based in Denver, so how would their paths have crossed?

Jack inches a little closer to their conversation, curious.

“Thank you!” Bittle says, ducking his head, though his grin is too bright to be hidden.

Levine releases him. “You were so fucking cool, bro—the hell was wrong with those judges? I thought you should’ve gotten first place.”

Bittle blinks, surprised. “Oh, were you at the competition, hon?”

“Well, duh! Gotta support my bro!” Levine thumps his chest to emphasize.

“Aww, Viney, I’m touched,” Bittle says, laying a hand against his own cheek and jokingly batting his lashes. They’re long and pretty, and make his eyes look even bigger than they already are. The doe-eyed look is good on him, Jack decides. “That means a lot to me,” Bittle continues.

Levine scoffs. “Can’t have meant _that_ much to you—you missed all our games! Some friend you are,” he says loftily.

Bittle rolls his eyes. “If you’d had some scheduled at different times from Team USA’s, maybe I’d have been able to make them.”

Levine gasps dramatically. “Traitor! I see how it is!”

Bittle doesn’t even say anything, just tugs at the lapels of his team jacket and raises a pointed brow.

“Okay, fine, priorities, priorities. I get it, I get it—but I still want brownies to make up for this abandonment,” Levine says.

Bittle opens his mouth to reply, but one of their other teammates shouts Levine’s name, and Bittle shakes his head instead. “You go on and finish what you were doing, hon. I’ll catch up with you later, ’kay?” He pats Levine’s arm as the man grunts in assent and moves away, leaving Bittle stranded by the wall.

Leaving him stranded, in effect, a few feet away from Jack.

It’s with a strange sense of inevitability that Jack watches him turn his head away from Levine’s retreating back, and towards him instead. He knows, even before Bittle’s eyes meet his without a shred of hesitation, that Bittle was going to look at him. That Bittle knew exactly where he was standing this entire time. That he was waiting there for Jack.

Someway, somehow, he just…knows. It’s that feeling again, lingering in the air:

Anticipation.

 _Oh_ , Jack thinks, looking back at him, _it’s you._

For a moment. Just for a moment.

Because in the very next second, Jack’s common sense reasserts itself and reminds him to snap the hell out of it, he is _staring at a stranger_. Jack jerks his gaze away and mechanically hikes his bag onto his shoulder, moving towards the exit, away from that moment of charged awareness. He shakes his head to clear it, and feels his shoulders hunch, embarrassment finally catching up to him.

What the hell was he thinking? Bittle can’t possibly be waiting around for _him_. They don’t know each other; there’s nothing to connect them, no possible reason to—

“Hi! Um, you’re Jack Zimmermann, right?”

Jack looks down at the hand that caught the edge of his sleeve—looks at the arm that it’s attached to—looks at the shoulders, the collarbones, the face that’s staring up at him, a charming smile fixed on it that Jack’s been seeing in the corner of his eye for years now.

 _He’s cute_ , says Jack’s hindbrain.

 _Oh, no_ , thinks the rest of him right after.

“What,” his mouth states without his permission, in the flattest, least welcoming tone he’s capable of.

Bittle lets go of his sleeve immediately, pulling his hand away like he’s been burnt. “Oh! Sorry! Just—I thought I’d say hi, since I—since we—oh, God, I should’ve practiced this more—” Bittle stops mid-sentence and squeezes his eyes shut, a flush stealing over his face in obvious mortification. He opens them a few seconds later and fixes his smile back in place; Jack can see the edge of nervousness to it, and realizes that it’s been there for a while now. He just didn’t recognize it earlier.

“I’m sorry about that,” Bittle says. “I just get nervous for no reason at all sometimes, so if we could just—erase those last few seconds from existence, I’d be real indebted to you.” His smile turns sheepish. “I’m Eric Bittle, by the way. Figure skater.” He sticks his hand out in front of him and looks up at Jack, hopeful.

 _He’s_ really _cute_ , Jack’s hindbrain points out unhelpfully.

Really not the point here. Get it together, Zimmermann.

Jack clears his throat. “Nice to meet you,” he says, taking Bittle’s hand and shaking it firmly.

Bittle’s smile widens. “Nice to meet you, too.”

And that’s how Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle meet for the first time. Obviously, it won’t be the last.

 

\---  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaaaack! *clears throat sheepishly* Thank you to all of my readers still out there - RL got in the way for a bit, but I appreciate everyone who still took the time to leave me a review or reached out to me on tumblr and elsewhere during my unintentional hiatus. Your kind words and understanding are much appreciated. 
> 
> You may also have noticed that final chapter count is now '?', mostly because I honestly have no clue what it's going to be. I wanted to put 15, but I've decided to just give myself the space to write as much as I want. The ending is in sight, but the middle is murky, so [insert shrug emoji]. I'm going to try for updates every two weeks - we'll see how it goes, so wish me luck! 
> 
> Special thanks to gutsybitsies, Julorean, bookwyrmling, beaniebaneenie, theawkwardconfusedturtle96, fabbittle, palateens, and honestly everyone on tumblr or Discord who sent me a 'hey, welcome back.' Y'all are the best. Also thanks to G, for using a combination of encouragement and reverse psychology to get me writing again - couldn't ask for a better sister. Thank you again to all my readers - the old ones for not giving up on me, the new ones for giving me a try. I swear to God, even if all you ever do is like my work or spare a moment to hope that I'm doing well, I appreciate the positive energy you send my way. Thanks!
> 
> If you need more BittyParse at the Olympics, I would like to remind you all [that those rumours, they have big teeth (hope they bite you)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771884) exists. Please give DasWarSchonKaputt some love, this is literally one of the first BittyParse fics I ever read, and I have mentally engraved every word of it on the inside of my skull, I adore it that much.
> 
> As always, hit me up [on tumblr](https://thehalfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com) if you wanna. :)


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